The Witcher 3: The Last Contract
by hyperactiveslacker
Summary: After a lifetime of hardship as a monster slayer for hire, the witcher Geralt of Rivia, a living legend both revered and reviled, searches for his lost love. The search will lead him to the most important quest of his life: one last contract that will determine both his fate and the world's. A full novelization and exploration of The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

 _ **On the Road to Vizima, Temeria, 1272**_

A crystal skull, the remnants of some magical spell, lay nestled in the dirt. It was the size of a human palm, and there were clear grooves in the shape of eye sockets, nostrils, and a sharp beak- a bird's skull. Its surface, though rough, was black as obsidian.

A steady wind blew through the blades of grass surrounding the skull, rustling the leaves of a nearby oak tree standing atop a small hill. At its base, two horses whinnied softly as they rested by a crackling fire.

Amongst the roots of the tree, two men lay fast asleep. One slept upright, his grey ponytail fluttering in the wind. The other lay on his side. His long hair, as white as the moon, was tied loosely behind his head. Many scars ran across his handsome face, the most noticeable running above his left eye and across his left cheek, almost joining into one long line. His chest rose in a steady rhythm, every breath causing the silver wolf medallion resting on his chest to jingle slightly.

The wind continued to blow through the camp. The horses snorted again, whipping their tails back and forth. Neither men stirred, their minds in a faraway place.

 **III**

 _ **Kaer Morhen, Witcher Keep, Banks of the Gwennlech**_

In the top floor of a tower in Kaer Morhen, a fireplace projected a comfortable warmth around the room, the light dancing around the stone columns surrounding the fire pit. The sunlight from the open window stretched into the room, landing on the tub. In it sat the witcher Geralt of Rivia- known to most as The White Wolf, The Butcher of Blaviken, or Gwynbleidd in the Elder Speech- who propped his foot up before rubbing the bottom with his other foot.

Satisfied, Geralt languidly leaned his head back, his arms resting on the edges of the tub. Taking in the warmth of the sun shining on his head, the witcher closed his eyes and took a deep breath, enjoying the pleasant feeling of the steam filling his lungs, before releasing it again with a contented sigh. _Ahhh…_

For the first time since he could remember, Geralt felt relaxed. He was not sleeping in the dirt or ankle deep in some forgotten bog. There were no monsters in some backwater land that would be better left to whatever foul bit of nature that lived in such places. He was not worried about having enough coin in his purse, nor on constant high alert for attacks from monsters or bandits. He took another deep breath.

On the opposite side of the tub a lobster, red with tinges of yellow, hooked a sharp claw around the edge.

Geralt's heightened witcher senses, which gave him the enhanced sight, hearing, smell, touch, and perception needed to track down anything he wanted to, dulled as he began to drift off. _I could stay like this all day._

The lobster pulled itself over the tub and slipped into the water in between Geralt's propped up legs.

Yes, submerged in a bath, Geralt could stay in this position all day and forget about the world. The only thing that could make this situation better would be if-

Geralt shot up and bit back a yelp. Something sharp had poked his nether regions! Clenching his hands a few times to calm down and bite back the first few things that came to mind, he opened his eyes and turned toward the only other person in the room.

"You know I don't find that amusing," he chided, with his deep, vibrating voice. He plucked the lobster out of the water and gave it a baleful glare, before lobbing it onto the floor. As soon as it hit the floor, it disappeared in a puff of smoke and light.

The source of the interrupting lobster was lying on her side on a reclining chair, with her legs crossed and held up by a stool. In her hands was an open book, though he hardly noticed, for the only article of clothing she wore was the towel on her head, and his eyes were drawn to the curves of her familiar cream colored skin, from her thin shoulders to her long legs, before landing squarely on her derriere.

Yennefer of Vengerberg turned her toweled head slightly in Geralt's direction. "It wasn't meant to amuse, but to prod you to hurry," she returned, her voice smooth as fine wine, "It's midday already."

Geralt blinked back to attention. Once her words registered, he let out an exasperated groan and sank further into the tub.

"You promised Ciri you'd train with her," she reminded, "Go, before Vesemir bores her to death with those etchings."

Heaving a great sigh, Geralt regretfully rose out of the tub and wrapped a towel around his waist. Criss-crossing all over his muscled body was a large collection of scars gained through years of monster hunts and other conflicts.

He walked over to the small dining table, where his trousers were slung over the back of a chair. While pulling them on, he took a look at the food spread. "You're running out of juice," he noted.

"I know," Yennefer replied, still reading her book, "You might bring me some more once you're done training."

Geralt chuckled lightly. _Trust Yen to see it that way_.

Walking over to the dresser, he took out a shirt and began pulling it on. Hearing Yennefer shut her book and rise to walk over to her bedside table, Geralt chanced a look behind him. He caught her just as she undid her head towel, which allowed her soft, raven locks to escape and tumble past her shoulders. She shook her head from side to side before looking over her shoulder, an enigmatic smile gracing her lips.

Smiling to himself, Geralt turned around and continued putting on his shirt, then grabbed his wolf medallion. As he slipped the chain around his neck, he smelled a familiar, pleasant scent, at once tart and sweet. Peering more closely at the dresser top, he spotted a familiar turquoise blue bottle- Yennefer's perfume bottle. Leaning in, he squeezed the top and took a longer whiff.

"Lilacs and gooseberries, of course," he said to himself. _It's always been her favorite scent, it smells just like her._

Yennefer, well familiar with his habit of voicing thoughts out loud, had picked up his words. "Geralt, stop fingering my toiletries."

Unashamed, he casually backed away from the dresser. A distant high pitched grunt reached his ears from outside. Walking out onto the balcony to investigate, his senses were immediately caught by the day that greeted him. Sunlight blanketed the forested valley stretched out in front of him, with winding dirt paths and shining rivers cutting small trails through the dark-green trees. _Shit- mountain pass is beautiful as ever._

Focusing his ears once more, Geralt looked down and saw the source of the grunts. _There's Ciri on the pendulum- but no Vesemir. Interesting._

Geralt walked back inside and went over to Yennefer, who stood in front of her mirror and clasped her diamond-encrusted obsidian star pendant on the velvet choker around her neck.

He looked at over at her outfit for the day, which was laid out on the bed. "Got any clothes that aren't black and white?"

"Mhm. Undergarments."

Glancing at the set of black, paisley panties and bra she was wearing, Geralt somehow doubted her. He stopped just behind her and lightly placed his hands on her waist. Giving her cheek a kiss and resting his chin over her shoulder, he glanced at the mirror and caught her bright violet eyes with his own cat-like yellow. "You see, I thought Ciri could stand to wait a little longer," he teased.

She rolled her eyes. "It's uninstructive," she said, "Not to mention unreasonable."

"I don't want to be reasonable."

A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "Aha! So that's the way the wind blows…"

She sat down in front of the mirror and pulled out a hairbrush. "Go and train with her. Then come back. It'll give me a chance to put my face on."

Leaning against the table, Geralt remarked, "Of all the women I've known, you're the only one who does that before…"

She turned to face him again, an eyebrow arched as if she had just remembered someone she needed to give a thrashing to. "You've known many?"

Geralt, realizing his blunder, smiled innocently. "What's it matter? Only ever thought of you…"

Yennefer smiled indulgently, and turned back to her mirror.

Accepting that it could have been worse, Geralt looked around for a change of subject. He glanced at her jewelry box. "Hmm...nothing but silver."

Another raised eyebrow. "Gold clashes with my complexion. You should know that, witcher."

"Right."

"Isn't there something you should be doing?"

Acknowledging her point, Geralt stood from the dresser. Trying one last time, he turned toward Yennefer. "So...later then?"

She only tilted her head slightly, "Mhm, see you later," she said imperiously.

Shrugging internally, Geralt took a step toward the door when Yennefer reached out and grabbed his arm, pulling him down to her lips and giving him a hard, but tender kiss. Before he could truly reciprocate, she pushed him away and went back to brushing her hair, not giving him a second look.

Still surprised but also pleased, Geralt slowly backed up, his feet taking him toward the door. His eyes were reluctant to leave her form, a fond smile on his face. Finally rousing the mental power to leave the room, he turned toward his desk and grabbed the key to the lower level.

Rounding the final corner into the lower level, Geralt took in the sight before him with amusement.

His old friend and mentor Vesemir, the oldest witcher of the Wolf School, slayer of innumerable monsters and trainer of countless young witchers over the course of a long life, as well as one of the best warriors Geralt had ever known, was snoring in his chair. At his outstretched feet, a dozens of books were scattered around- some stacked, some strewn about, one even left open on the wolf pelt rug. A half-eaten apple, and a doodle of a ghoul on a piece of scrap paper completed the image of a lesson cut short. _Old witcher's fast asleep...Ciri took her chance to escape, of course._

Geralt walked past Vesemir's still slumbering form and out onto the balcony. Looking down into the courtyard, he spotted his ward still moving back and forth on the pendulum.

"Guess she prefers practice to theory…"

"Hm?...What?"

Geralt turned to back to Vesemir. "Time to wake up, master," he said dryly, "These lessons so boring they put you to sleep too?"

Vesemir sat up. "Dammit… Had her taking notes on 'Ghouls and Alghouls'," He rubbed the side of his head, "Wanted to rest my eyes a bit."

"Huh. Making her slog through that brick? No wonder she took off."

"John of Brugge lacks flair, true, but he's reliable. Not like the hogwash they print nowadays."

Vesemir stood from his chair and joined Geralt at the balcony. "She's tackling the pendulums, right?" he asked rhetorically, clearly hearing the same grunts as his fellow witcher. He looked down at Ciri and sighed. "How many times do I have to tell her? Don't train alone, it only embeds your errors!"

He turned toward Geralt. "Bring our young damsel to the lower courtyard. She wants to practice? She'll get to practice!"

"Don't get mad at her," Geralt rebuked lightly.

"Why the hell not? The whippersnapper refuses to do as she's told."

"You like that about her."

"Hmph, fine. I suppose I'm partly to blame. But this has to end. Now." Vesemir furrowed his brow. "Killing monsters is not something to be taken lightly. Ciri must understand that if she's to become one of us. Now go. I'll meet you below."

Nodding, Geralt pushed off of the balcony and headed for the stairs.

 **III**

Geralt walked up the wood steps leading to the fortress' outer wall and stopped in front of Ciri, who was still practicing on the pendulum.

Comprised of a row of vertical, narrow wooden posts and a support structure holding the pendulum itself as it swung back in forth perpendicular to the line of posts, the training device tested every aspect of a witcher's skill set.

Their swordsmanship. Ciri swung her wooden sword in the practiced motions of a witcher- quick, slashing strikes against one side of the pendulum before pivoting around to strike the other side, and then back again, finishing in a deep crouch to lend both power to the sword strike and transition into the next dodge.

Their acrobatics. Simulating a backwards dodge, she pirouetted twice on top of the posts.

"Wrong," Geralt instructed.

Their balance. Ciri had swung around too hard on the second pirouette and her feet had landed on the edges of the posts. Geralt had seen the miscue halfway through the first pirouette. She wobbled on the edge as she tried to regain her balance.

Geralt did not let up. "Now I see why you were so eager to practice. Strike."

Jumping back into a rhythm, Ciri twirled her sword around her body before executing a few more strikes, then finishing the combination with another spin toward the pendulum.

Their timing. She had struck the swinging log as it moved in the opposite direction of her strike. The force of the hit instantly numbed her hand, causing her to drop her sword. Sticking a foot out, she caught the sword and flipped it up, catching it behind her back and turning into another move in one smooth motion.

Geralt facepalmed. "You're not in the circus. Pirouette."

A few more strikes. "Wrong. Footwork."

A couple more dodges. "Enough," Geralt said, crossing his arms. "Get down."

Ciri turned toward him. "With a flip?"

"What do you think?"

Executing a perfect back flip, she landed and faced Geralt.

"All right, take off the blindfold."

Their instincts. For a witcher, their movements had to be second nature to them in order to maintain the speed, strength, and precision necessary to slay any monster that came their way. In the heat of battle, there could no second guessing- they had to stay calm and composed. That's what training with a blindfold reinforced.

Pulling off her blindfold revealed Ciri's olive green eyes, which she blinked a few times. Though only a young child, her hair was ashen grey, just a few shades darker than Geralt's own white. Splotches of freckles dusted her nose and cheeks.

"You've got work to do. Your reflexes are still slow."

"Maybe for a witcher," she replied defensively.

"Think drowners or strigas will go easy on you because you haven't undergone the mutations?" he asked rhetorically.

Though fully knowing the answer, Ciri seemed to give it a moment of thought before puffing her chest out and placing her hands on her hips. She gave Geralt an exaggerated nod, a faux look of deep contemplation on her face.

"Though in your shoes I'd fear Vesemir more than any striga. Disobeying his instructions... unwise," Geralt continued seriously.

As soon as Ciri heard Vesemir's name she deflated and looked down, acknowledging her misdeed. "Well, yes, but...that book was horribly dull!" she tried.

"I know," Geralt said, crouching down to look her in the eyes, "And you know that's no excuse."

"Ugh. I'm sorry. It won't happen again," Ciri acceded, mock sufferingly.

Geralt nodded, satisfied. "Better not. Vesemir said if it does, he'll make you eat a bowl of slugs," he said, smirking, "Covered in _salt_."

"Ewww!" Ciri laughed, shaking her head.

Geralt chuckled. "Exactly. So you'd best behave." He nodded his head to his right. "Come on, we'll practice with the others down below."

Ciri turned her attention toward the lower courtyard. "Shall we run the walls?" she asked excitedly.

"Of course. This a witcher's school or an elven bath house?" Geralt asked, grinning challengingly.

Her only response was to sprint off toward the first ladder. "Beat you to the bottom!"

"Hah, only if you fall!" Geralt yelled back, rushing after her a moment later.

With only the one ladder to take them to the top, Ciri was able to dash up a few platforms by the time Geralt climbed it.

"Run into trouble?" Ciri yelled over her shoulder, "Should I turn back and help you?!"

"What did I tell you about breathing?" Geralt shouted back, "Through your mouth, in rhythm with your steps."

Ciri's next few breaths were loud and huffy, coming out more as small shouts.

"Ciri. Cut it out."

She ran down a few steps and clambered over the edge of a platform, Geralt gaining quickly.

They reached a gap between the platforms. Ciri tore across the thin gangplank. Geralt simply leapt over the gap, rushing ahead of Ciri.

"Hey! You said we couldn't do that," Ciri protested.

"I said _you_ couldn't do that," Geralt said cheekily.

Jumping down the last couple of platforms, Geralt swung his legs over the final ladder and slid down. Taking a moment to dust off his trousers, he began slowly walking toward the lower courtyard. He heard Ciri's lighter feet step off the ladder and run over to join him.

"I win."

"Your legs are longer!" Ciri complained, huffing in some air. "I'll show you yet- just need to grow a bit!"

"That's no excuse."

Ciri blew a raspberry at Geralt and jumped down from the last platform leading to the courtyard, where Vesemir waited, silently sharpening his blade with a whetstone. "Oh no...Vesemir's got that look."

"What did you expect?"

The two of them approached Vesemir, one relaxed, the other apprehensive. Ciri looked up at Geralt, silently pleading for some help. Geralt gently nodded toward his old instructor, silently telling her to get it over with. Ciri stepped forward with a sigh.

Off to the side sat their fellow witchers, Eskel and Lambert, who watched Ciri with expressions of equal parts pity and amusement. Ciri smiled weakly at them before turning to Vesemir, who walked up to her, hands on his hips.

"Anything to say for yourself, young lady?" Vesemir asked expectantly.

Ciri stared off to the right before rousing the courage to look up to him. "I'm very sorry, Uncle Vesemir," she said contritely.

"Young blood craves action, I understand," Vesemir chastised, "But when you fight a beast, knowledge counts as much as your silver sword. At the very least, you ought to be able to tell a ghoul from an alghoul-"

"'-by markings, like unto the panthera tigris that in Zerrakania dwells, and by the sickly paleness of its visage'," Ciri quoted confidently.

Geralt, impressed, was amused to see Vesemir's face slacken, his lecture stopped in its tracks by Ciri's unexpected knowledge.

Vesemir recovered quickly. "Hmm. So you _did_ read the chapter. Still, you should've asked if…"

Ciri cocked her head to the side. "But you were _asleep_ , Uncle Vesemir," she sweetly pointed out.

Geralt decided to step in. "Don't try to weasel your way out of this," he rebuked lightly.

"'A witcher must always know how to trick his opponent.' You said so yourself," she reasoned.

"Might've," Geralt calmly admitted, ignoring Eskel and Lambert making faces over her shoulder, "But don't use my words of wisdom on Vesemir, got it? That's playing with fire."

"Fine, we've talked enough," Vesemir soothed. "Geralt, you're with me. Lambert with Eskel. Ciri with the dummy."

"Huh...again!?" Ciri protested.

"Stop groaning and grab a sword!" Vesemir commanded.

Pouting, Ciri dragged her feet over to the training dummy in the corner while Eskel and Lambert stood and pulled out their swords. Vesemir turned toward Geralt. "Shall we review the fundamentals?"

Geralt nodded. "Should hone the basics. Even skilled masters need to hone the fundamentals... and Ciri's barely a novice."

They reviewed the basic styles of attack for Ciri: _Addan Anye,_ fast and light attacks; and _Temerian Devil_ , slow and heavier attacks. Following a demonstration on proper dodging and rolling, Geralt and Vesemir showcased the correct angles for parrying.

"What am I supposed to parry?" Ciri yelled, "All I'm fighting is a stupid dummy!"

"Pretend now, live later!" Vesemir barked.

Counter-attacking drew similarly sarcastic remarks from Ciri.

Vesemir and Geralt followed with the five witcher signs: Quen, a protective energy shield; Igni, a blast of fire; Aard, a telekinetic blast; Axii, the hypnosis sign; and Yrden, a magical trap. All used in their off hand, signs were simple spells which aided witchers in and out of combat.

After a few rounds of sparring the two witchers sheathed their swords. Ciri struck the dummy twice, the second swing clubbing the helmet clean off and over the wall. "Hah!" she crooned. Seizing a chance to have some fun, Ciri dropped her sword and began climbing after the wayward headgear.

"Woah, you really showed him, kid!" Lambert cracked.

Ciri reached the top of the wall. "Ciri, get down here," Geralt shouted out.

"Huh, the little she-devil," Vesemir grinned conspiratorially, "Soon as she's back, we'll set her to polishing all of the swords of Kaer Morhen."

With a grin of his own, Geralt walked over to the spot Ciri disappeared to. "Find that helmet yet?" he called. He received no response.

Confused, Geralt tried again. "Ciri?!" Yet again, there was no answer.

Growling in annoyance, Geralt vowed to find every sword in Kaer Morhen. He shook his head, before freezing, picking up an all too familiar smell. Blood. _Human blood._

Turning to locate the source, Geralt zoned in on the practice dummy. Warily, he approached it and observed it. Immediately, he noticed the entire front of the headpiece was soaked a dark red. _What the…_

Geralt turned sharply toward Eskel and Lambert, who stood chatting only a few paces away. _They should have noticed this too._ And yet, they continued speaking to each other, showing no indication anything was wrong.

Whipping back toward the dummy, Geralt glanced at the insides exposed by the tear in the cloth. _That's... skin_. Almost paralyzed with disbelief, he slowly reached a hand toward the tear, and pulled.

Geralt stepped back, barely able to comprehend what he was seeing. It was a face- undeniably human- cut up and bloodied, one dull, grey-blue eye staring right back at him.

He turned, a yell for Vesemir on his lips, before all sound died in his throat.

The cold. In an instant, Geralt felt the bite of an unnatural frost, the thick layer of snow falling around him, the cold encasing everyone around him. Eskel. Lambert. Vesemir. Ciri.

Everything had grown dark except for a hole in the sky emitting a pale, sickly light. And pouring out that hole was a huge, ghostly longship, its body made of sharp bony plates so black it seemed to suck the light back into it.

Two warhorses screamed out, the neighs echoing unnaturally. Three huge, humanoid figures stood on the wall, covered in skeletal armor as black as their ship. The one in the middle towered over the other two and wore a grotesque crown for a helmet, the points caved inwards like a grasping claw. He turned around, the front of his helmet nothing more than a skull- two gaping holes for eyes staring down at Geralt.

"I've long awaited this, and you, White Wolf", the figure intoned, his voice guttural, malevolent.

One of the warriors stepped up to Ciri's frozen form and lifted his sword. Geralt stood there, unable to do anything but watch, as the warrior swung his sword down.

"NOOOOOOO!"

His vision faded to black, Ciri's screams echoing in his head.

 **III**

 **A/N** **:** And we're off! This story will be a novelization of the events of The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt. For my own sake, and I hope to your enjoyment, this novelization will examine the deeper thought process that my version of Geralt would have gone through as TW3 plays out, and shake things up here and there. This story and its characters are inspired by the gameverse and bookverse, and any slight differences from what you experienced yourself are mine alone.

While I understand that the books and games cannot be considered completely separate entities, CDProjektRed was marvelously successful at straddling the line between honoring its influences while crafting an alternative and personal path for Geralt and The Witcher universe that anyone could leap into and enjoy, fans both old and new. As such, Geralt will be a bit more like the Geralt I role-played throughout the game and at times, the Geralt I wish we could have been in select circumstances. Thank you for reading, and I'll see you soon!

-HyperS


	2. White Orchard

**Chapter 1**

 **White Orchard**

 _ **On the Road to Vizima, Temeria**_

Geralt shot up and sucked in a few deep breaths. He rubbed his face agitatedly. _Helluva dream. Great way to wake up._

Troubled, Geralt moved to sit on a rock by the dying fire. He absentmindedly tossed a log into the flames, the last moments of the dream replaying in his head over and over. The skeletal faces. His inability to act. Ciri being cut down in front of his eyes.

"You all right?" Vesemir, already awake, watched Geralt with concern.

"Mhm. Had a nightmare," Geralt grunted, his voice ragged.

"About?" Vesemir asked.

Geralt shook his head. "Take forever to explain."

"Dawn's someway off. We've got time," his fellow witcher patiently said.

Geralt stared into the fire for a long moment. "Started in the guest room in Kaer Morhen," he finally began, "I was relaxing in a tub, and next to me…"

"Triss?" Vesemir ventured.

" _Yennefer_. Funny, isn't it? She's never been there. Seemed so real in my dream though."

"Was she nagging you about something?"

"Mhm," Geralt confirmed, images of the lobster coming to him.

"True to life, indeed," Vesemir joked. "We'll find her."

"I know we will. That's not what worries me," Geralt replied. He was confident that they were on her tail. They had found many signs of her passing- the soldier whose head had exploded through his eyeballs, a few broken branches, and the veritable earthquake which had buried dozens of men and horses. Between two experienced witchers, Yennefer's trail was easy to piece together. There was one thing Geralt was unable to shake though. "You've seen her tracks. She's at full gallop all the time, breakneck speed through wild lands, devastated battlefields...She's in a hurry to get somewhere, or fleeing something. Either way, it means trouble of some sort," he concluded gravely.

Vesemir scoffed. "Be surprised if she _wasn't_ in trouble. She's always poked her nose in beehives. Courtly intrigues here, mages' conspiracies there. What did you expect?"

Geralt considered it for a moment. "Don't know," he eventually admitted, "Guess I thought, once we were finally reunited, things would be calm. At least for a while."

"Calm? With Yennefer?" Vesemir gave a short laugh. "Good luck."

Geralt's mind went to the kiss Yen gave him in the dream- demanding and inviting at the same time, just as she could be in real life. He started thinking of the six months spent searching for Yennefer's whereabouts and the years it had been since he'd seen her. Putting those thoughts aside, he considered the next part of his dream.

"In the dream, I went and found Ciri. Then we trained."

Vesemir looked off into the distance, thoughtful. "Those were the days...hmph, the little she-devil," he said, inadvertently echoing his words from Geralt's dream. "I've trained kids who were faster, stronger- but none had her character."

Geralt's mind flew to the years of training Ciri at Kaer Morhen and the way she appeared in his dream. That cheeky, mischievous, and rowdy child had begun to mature into an intelligent, stubborn, and independent young woman the last time Geralt had seen her. _I can't believe it's been seven years…has she been on her own this whole time?_ The dream image of her being attacked came back to the fore of his mind. _Could something have happened to her?_

Vesemir saw the tension in Geralt's posture. "Didn't end well, did it? Your dream."

"No. The Wild Hunt appeared, attacked Ciri...I couldn't move. Stood there like a stump," Geralt recounted woodenly. The Wild Hunt. A cavalcade of ghostly horsemen that appeared in the skies, many considered them an omen of war and death. The mysterious riders were known for bringing the cold of winter with them wherever they passed, and had been known to abduct humans from time to time.

Geralt had a much more personal history with the Wild Hunt- when he was found outside of Kaer Morhen two years ago, the wraiths had dogged his steps, appearing as specters in his dreams until he had fought off the King's specter in single combat. Having recovered his lost memories, Geralt knew that they were more than mere specters. He had fought and killed them just like any other men at one point. Most importantly and mysteriously, they had abducted Yennefer, and later Geralt himself, for unknown reasons. Even with his restored memories, those five years remained a complete loss to him.

Vesemir could tell Geralt was spiraling off into his thoughts. "It was just a dream," he reassured.

"That's the problem- it was more. In the past, when Ciri'd appear in my dreams, something was wrong. She was in danger," he insisted, for Ciri was not just Geralt's adopted daughter, but his Unexpected Child- his surprise child- and their fates were bound together by Destiny. Their connection ran deeper than blood or friendship ever could.

"We taught her to defend herself against anything- wraiths included."

Geralt admitted that Ciri had become a very able fighter and had proven to be a survivor. But he had not dreamed of her in a long time and had no idea what could have changed to put her back in danger. Frustrated, but without any other course of action, he decided to revisit it later. "Be dawning soon. Time to go," he declared. He sat up and began saddling the horses.

Vesemir walked up behind him. "Wait. Show me the letter from Yennefer, might've overlooked some hint in there."

"Didn't overlook anything," Geralt insisted impatiently, "We were meant to meet in Willoughby- that's what she wrote. Meanwhile one army or another burned the village to the ground. All we can do is follow her trail, so…"

"Stop talking for a minute and give me the letter." Vesemir took the letter from Geralt and brought it straight to his nose. "Well how about that! It _does_ smell of lilac and gooseberries!" he exclaimed in mock surprise.

"You were gonna read it, not sniff it," Geralt reminded him irritably.

"'We must meet soon'... 'Willoughby, near Vizima'... hmm, nothing else to guide us here," Vesemir concluded, much as Geralt had asserted moments ago. Geralt was about to point that out when Vesemir continued reading. "What's this postscript?" I still have the _unicorn_?"

Geralt paused, images of Yen's bizarre stuffed unicorn and lots of enjoyable nights spent on, under, or around said unicorn coming to mind. _Still the worst place imaginable for having sex though._ "That's private. Very private," he said meaningfully, his pale visage betraying none of his thoughts.

"A-ha. I understand. Least I think I do. Maaaybe not entirely, but... perhaps that's for the best," Vesemir drew out, clearly having a laugh at Geralt's expense.

"Back on topic," Geralt declared, "How's it look- how far behind Yennefer are we?"

Vesemir considered his answer. "Two, three days... trail's fresh. But it looks like it leads toward the main road. Could be muddled there."

Howls from behind caused them to turn.

"You hear that?" Vesemir asked, loosening his silver sword.

"I hear it. I smell it." Geralt called, drawing his own silver blade. "Ghouls."

A common type of corpse-eater, ghouls haunted battlefields, graveyards, and any other places where dead were left to rot. They were driven solely by a hunger for any kind of human flesh and were not picky about their prey being alive or dead. Appearing as a sickly humanoid that crawled on all fours, individual ghouls were rather weak creatures that became significantly more dangerous in packs. There were a good handful in the pack attacking the witchers. Still, ghouls were a dime a dozen in a witcher's life and quickly fell to Geralt and Vesemir's blades.

"Of course. When armies pass, necrophages follow," Vesemir said. He mounted his horse and turned toward the road. "Let's go before any more show up."

Geralt knelt to wipe his blade on the grass, when his eye caught an object reflecting the early morning sun on the ground. _What do we have here?_ He picked it up and examined it. _A skull, shaped like a raven's. But it's not bone; it's black crystal. Hmm, why do I think this is Yen's?_ Geralt tucked the trinket into his pocket. "Trail's fresh _,_ " he murmured. He mounted his horse Roach and rode after Vesemir.

 **III**

"Ever tell you about this sorcerer I knew?" Geralt asked conversationally. "Couldn't stop talking about how useful ghouls are as creatures."

"Because you can brew potions from their blood?" Vesemir guessed.

"Heh, no. Because by eating rotting corpses they prevent epidemics."

"Hmph. Did he know they eat the living as well?"

"No...really upset him too...his theory collapsed," Geralt said with mock sadness.

They rounded a bend in their current hill and saw the outskirts of a burned out village. Greeting Geralt and Vesemir were three corpses, hanging off a makeshift scaffold.

"War's not exactly going our way," Vesemir remarked grimly as they rode past.

Geralt raised an eyebrow at Vesemir's back. "We have a side?"

"The Northern Realms," claimed Vesemir.

"Radovid's Realms, don't you mean? Temeria and Aedirn are no more," Geralt pessimistically pointed out. Neither one of those kingdoms which bordered Nilfgaard had lasted long, and only the coming of winter had slowed down the Nilfgaardian advance.

"Radovid's pledged to restore the old borders- soon as he wins the war."

"Believe that?"

"Hmph. Gotta believe something. It's what keeps us going."

Geralt didn't share his cautious optimism. In his experience, no ruler who seized power willingly relinquished it.

The witchers made their way through the village, its huts all burned down and pillaged. Some of the surviving villagers could only stand there and weep, while others grimly dug through the wreckage for anything salvageable. Geralt and Vesemir maintained a respectful silence and continued into the nearby woods.

Riding through the woods was a rather silent and uneventful trip, a rarity in times of war and chaos. The road eventually guided them to the sight of a ford, with farmlands appearing on the other side of the river- a quiet bit of civilization. Which was why it was strange to hear the shrill shriek of a griffin from up ahead.

"We going?"

Geralt nodded and galloped off towards the sound, Vesemir close behind. It wasn't long before they found what they were looking for. In the middle of the ford was a destroyed merchant wagon, its goods strewn about. A few bloodied corpses littered the ground, mauled to death by the griffin.

Griffins were a regal combination of eagle and tomcat with powerful hind legs and a mane, paired with a pincer-liked beak and hooked claws the size of a man's arm. Griffins were deadly hunters that preyed on livestock and men in equal measure. Said monster was on the other side of the cart using those sharp claws to rend the guts of a dead horse into pieces. It was a large beast, easily bigger than the wagon itself.

"Help me! Help!" came a shout from under the wagon. Quickly dismounting, Geralt and Vesemir drew their silver swords and rushed in.

The griffin tore another chunk out of the horse and screeched. Geralt reached it first and jumped at the beast just as it took to the air. His outstretched sword sliced through its underside, a stream of blood falling from the griffin as it circled around. Geralt landed in a graceful crouch, watching its movements closely.

Roaring in pain, the griffin swung around and dove at its challengers in an instant. Geralt and Vesemir both dodged out of the way, but the griffin's claws caught Vesemir in the shoulder. He yelled in pain, but grit his teeth and kept his sword ready regardless. Circling around once more, the griffin went for another attack. Geralt shifted under its claws and turned to follow its flight path. However, instead of coming around for another attack the griffin simply latched onto the horse corpse and carried it off.

With the immediate danger taken care of, Geralt checked on his friend's status. He was clutching his left shoulder and grimacing. Luckily, it seemed Vesemir's shoulder pauldron had taken most of the impact, though the wound was bleeding lightly. He waved off Geralt's unspoken question.

"Has it gone?" asked the voice underneath the wagon.

"Yeah. Come out!" Geralt called out.

A man with a bowl cut crawled out, taking a few shaky steps as he looked at his saviors. "Gods, that was close! I was sure I'd end up like my mare!"

"Provided you got lucky," Vesemir said morbidly, now standing up straight and looking unbothered by his injury.

The now identified wagon owner looked at Vesemir with a mixture of horror and confusion. Geralt decided to elaborate for the poor man. "Your horse died quickly. But griffins like to toy with their prey. Eat it, alive, piece by piece."

"Ah, ah...ha." If anything, he looked even more horrified than before. "You'd...you'd like a reward, I suppose?"

It was an unspoken consensus among witchers that they did not work without a reward. This was the case for a couple of reasons. For one, witchers generally faced suspicion and hostility from the common folk, and had to pay for all of their expenses out of pocket even while on the job. Secondly, witchers tried to remain neutral in political conflicts. Being focused on working for coin was a way to stay professional. That didn't always end up being the case- Geralt had fallen into more than his share of political intrigues, much to his chagrin.

Geralt personally cited a set of rules he called "The Witcher's Code" as reasoning for his action or inaction; however, no such code formally existed. He simply tried to live by a certain set of principles, and presenting them as a code made it easier for others to accept them. In this case, Geralt felt that saving the man was an act of human decency. He wouldn't charge for that, and knew Vesemir felt the same. Geralt shook his head. "You don't owe us anything. You were in need, we helped."

He smiled gratefully. "And they call witchers heartless. Say they won't lift a finger without pay."

"They also say mice are born of rotting straw," Geralt said mildly.

The merchant acknowledged Geralt's point with a thoughtful nod and turned to inspect his goods.

"Well, back to the trail?"

"Like I said- leads to the main road and ends there. Muddled."

"You seek someone?" the merchant cut in.

Geralt frowned a bit, but figured asking a helpful face wouldn't hurt. "Yes. A woman, medium height, long, black hair. Seen anyone like that?"

"No. But...there's an inn in White Orchard. Sole one around. Gets its fair share of travelers, perhaps you'll learn something there. It's just down the road. Besides, the innkeep's my cousin. Tell her Bram sent you, and she'll treat you like family."

Geralt had to agree with his logic. Village inns were usually a good place to hear of anything interesting in an area. His head conjured images of a soft bed and a hot meal. "Not a bad idea. Especially since that wound needs cleaning."

"Bah, beast barely grazed me. But sure...could use a good rye. Nice and cool, you know, straight from a cellar?"

Now the picture of a mug of cold ale entered his head. Geralt was liking the idea of an inn even more. "Thanks, Bram. Let's go."

 **III**

In Geralt's estimation, White Orchard seemed like a picturesque image of a cozy, provincial village. Named after the blossoms of its lush fruit trees, the village was tucked along a calm river bend. Stretches of farmland surrounded the village proper, where the farmers tended to their crops. Fishermen cast their lines into the calm waters of the river, while the sounds of the craftsmen could be heard. Women sat outside their thatched roofed homes, cleaning and sewing clothes as children darted around the laundry lines and livestock. The only reminder of the war engulfing the land was the presence of the Nilfgaardian soldiers guarding the bridge the two witchers crossed over into town. _And the prowling griffin, it would seem._

"So...a griffin this close to the village. Strange."

"My thoughts exactly. In a forest or the mountains, sure, but here? And near the main road?"

"Maybe it's the war? Corpses everywhere, the stench of blood, burnt flesh...drives monsters crazy sometimes."

"Men, too. We need to watch ourselves here," Vesemir warned, "And we should leave as soon as we learn anything."

In the middle of the town was Geralt and Vesemir's destination: the White Orchard Inn. Walking into the establishment, Geralt was greeted with brightly colored walls depicting lively fauna- unsurprisingly, flowers seemed to factor heavily into the designs. Other than the walls, it was an average inn; patrons sat at a few benches around the main area of the inn, with tallow candles lighting up the corners of the room that the morning sun did not reach. Vesemir zoned in on the innkeeper behind the counter and began to walk over.

"Wha...witchers?"

A few of the patrons stared at the newcomers, most with benign curiosity.

Others were more combative. "I'll not drink with weevil-arsed freaks," declared a rough looking, tattooed man at the nearest table as they walked past.

Geralt stopped for a moment and coldly glared back at him before walking over to the bar.

"Beg your pardon for those thugs," the innkeeper, a kindly middle-aged woman with greying hair, said as a greeting.

Vesemir shrugged off her apologies. "No need, we're used to it."

The innkeeper gave them an apologetic grimace. "Folk're jumpy 'round here. Armies just passed through, and now a griffin's prowling about…"

"Mhm...already had the pleasure. Ran into your kinsman, Bram."

"Bram? How is he?" she asked earnestly.

"Alive. Sends his regards," Vesemir informed her, to her obvious delight.

"Master witchers, food and drink on the house! Come, come, let me get you seated!"

True to Bram's word, the innkeeper quickly escorted them to an open table in the corner and laid out a selection of breads, meats, and cheeses to go along with two mugs of ale, the later which pleased Vesemir immensely.

"Now, is there anything else I can get you?"

Geralt didn't touch the food, instead cutting right to the chase. "Looking for a woman. Raven-haired, violet eyes. Dresses in black and white. Riding in from Willoughby. And, uh, strange as it sounds- lilac and gooseberries, might've smelled that."

She considered his description for a moment, before frowning. "I've not seen nor smelt such a lady. Believe I'd remember."

"Yeah, especially hard to forget this one." Vesemir snarked.

Geralt gave him an unimpressed look. Vesemir innocently took a drink from his mug.

"Plenty of travelers about though, folk from all over," the innkeeper continued smoothly, overlooking the byplay. "Might be worth your while to ask after her."

Geralt took a long look at the other clientele, wondering if any of them held any information on his quarry."Pretty busy place you've got."

"Nation's on the move," she explained. "Some search for kin, others just want to get out of the way of the armies. They all need food, drink, and a night's rest in warmth."

"So, war's been good for your trade?"

She looked down and slumped a little bit. "Aye, so far. But it'd be best to know peace again. Times like these you never know what tomorrow will bring."

"There a contract on that griffin?" Vesemir asked lightly.

"Nay, not at the moment. Used to be, soon as a beast built a nest nearby the ealdorman'd start a collection, or go to the lord for help. But now the ealdorman don't use the privy without askin' the Black One's permission first. And it seems they hanged the lord...So no contract." She shrugged helplessly.

"Shame. We might have done something, but not for free," Vesemir said.

"A shame indeed. Is there anything else for you?"

Geralt shook his head. "That'll be all. Thanks. For everything."

"Well, my name is Elsa. If you masters be needing anything else, just give me a shout." Nodding her head, the innkeeper returned to the counter.

Geralt peered at Vesemir's wound. "Help you bandage that up?"

"Pfft, please, I'm not decrepit yet."

Geralt had figured as much, and began eyeing the other patrons. "Then I'll ask about Yennefer."

"And I'll finish off this ale."

He first tried the table next to him, where two locals were eating. "I'm looking for someone."

"And we seek some peace and quiet."

"Outta my face, freak, 'fore your breath sours my beer."

 _Assholes._ Geralt was in no mood to be insulted by random boors, especially ones that may have vital information. So rather than waste his breath, he cast Axii by lifting his closed fist, curling up his index finger, and then straightening his pinky finger. "Raven-haired woman dressed in black and white. Seen her? _Talk_."

The first boor barely blinked before he began speaking woodenly. "Folk say the lady rode through the village a few days back. Gallopin' so fast she knocked Radobar into a ditch."

"Which way did she go?"

"Dunno...lots of tracks leadin' off the main road. Coulda gone anywhere."

The other boor looked at his friend in shock and yelled out, "Oi, people! The freak's taken Micah's mind!"

Geralt glared at him and cast another Axii. "Your breath soured your beers. You and your friend should _leave_."

"Uh-huh. Right, we'll leave."

"And fix your breath."

"Uh-huh. Fix our breath."

Geralt watched the befuddled men leave the inn. _Sounds like we really are right on her tail. Now just to get some information on where she went from here._

At the next table, a group of men were gathered around a game of cards. Two of them, wearing plain clothes and sporting unkempt beards, seemed to be locals or simple travelers. The third man seemed to be well off and was dressed in a fancy black doublet with a striped gorget, frilled shoulder pads, and a garish hat to complete the look. The first two were playing each other in the game while the rich man was sitting by their side teaching them the rules.

"Once more, there are _four_ factions!"

"Four wha?" _Well, at least_ trying _to._

"Factions! Teams, suits! Similar to clubs and spades, except each suit has its own face cards. There are also special cards-

"Wouldn't you rather play war? It'll be near sun down 'fore you get your game in me noggin.'"

The rich man threw down his cards in disgust. "What a waste of time! The earth shall revolve around the sun before you comprehend these rules."

Grunting indifferently, the other two stood up and left. Seeing an opportunity to insert himself in the conversation, Geralt swooped in. "Got a minute?"

"Why not. Aldert Geert, assistant professor in contemporary history at Oxenfurt Academy," he replied importantly.

"Geralt of Rivia, witcher with tenure."

Geert looked particularly flummoxed at his introduction. The tenured witcher slid into the seat across from him, getting right to the point. "I'm looking for a woman- long hair, dressed in black and white. Seen anyone like that?"

Geert scoffed at his question. "Of course not! Unlike the populace, I know the Horsewoman of War is pure poppycock."

Geralt blinked. "Horsewoman of War- what's that about?"

"Folk say an omen, a beautiful phantom rides the fields at night. Looks as you described her. Armies follow her, and all who cross her path meet misfortune," Geert lectured.

Geralt considered Geert's description. "I can vouch for the last bit. Know where they saw her?"

"No. Facts interest me, not fairy tales."

 _Well. It's clear he knows nothing about Yen._

Geert peered back down at the cards on the table. "However if I do say so myself, you strike me as a man of the world, witcher. Are you familiar with gwent?"

"No. And I don't have time to learn."

"But the rules are quite simple. Come, let's play! I'll even let you keep this starter deck and wager one of my special cards!"

Geralt, now more intrigued by the offer, acquiesced. "Let's play."

As it turned out, gwent was a rather simple game to grasp. Players would build decks out of cards. Cards came in the form of unit cards which differed in combat ability and special abilities and a few special cards. Most unit cards were tied to a specific faction, as Geert had been describing to the previous players. Each card had its own character, many of whom Geralt had personally been acquainted with at some point. _Seems like this set is based off of Dandelion's ballads or something_. Each player drew 10 cards from their deck and tried to achieve a higher combat score for the round. Whoever won best out of three rounds won the match.

Midway through the first round, Geralt started the conversation again, curious as he was about recent events. "Not a place I'd ever expect to find a scholar. Take it you're fleeing the war?"

"Quite the opposite. Chasing it. I'm headed to the front," he said excitedly.

"Tired of life?"

"I seek knowledge, which I value more than life itself," he declared, "I've a thirst no dusty tomes can quench. I wish to see the Nilfgaardian invasion with my own eyes, understand it, and record it all in my chronicle, my magnum opus."

Geralt nodded. "Interesting. We need somebody to describe war- what it's really like. Not colorful banners and generals making moving speeches, but rape, violence, and thoughtless cruelty." Geralt had witnessed many wars in his lifetime and the terrible things humans could do to one another. While Geralt had come to the conclusion that the nature of war itself never changed, he did believe the world needed someone to document the full picture if humans were going to change for the better.

"Ah, I see you lack the polish of the academy," the scholar announced condescendingly. "Rape and cruelty are details of no import to the war's course. Trinkets on the garment of conflict, one might say."

Geralt frowned. "Tell that to the people whose houses burned down." _Looks like this guy won't be that someone._

Geert gave a distracted shrug and focused on the game, not that Geralt expected anything more. _Speaking of the war front..._

"War reached Novigrad yet?" The free city of Novigrad was the largest city in the North, and the richest. It sat on the Pontar Delta that was also the war front.

"No, but it's only a matter of time. Nilfgaard on one bank, Redania on the other...drooling over the city like dogs over a juicy bone."

"Many a ruler has choked on that bone."

"True. We value our liberty in Novigrad and we know how to fight for it."

"Mhm. The scholars especially."

"The sword is not the only weapon. Do not forget, architects from our academy designed the city walls- walls no machine has ever crumbled!"

In lieu of a response, Geralt placed down his trebuchet card to finish the match in his favor. Geert sat back primly, deliberately ignoring the irony. "Well, well. You've a knack for this game." He handed Geralt his prize card, who accepted it and made to move on.

"Farewell. If you are ever in Oxenfurt, and wish to play a true master, ask for Stjepan. A simple innkeep by trade, but a true maestro when it comes to gwent."

"Thanks, I'll remember that."

He peered at his prize card. _Huh, it's Zoltan's card. And the quote is about asses. Fitting._

The next table over had only one bald, weathered looking man sitting in it. The man had the look of an experienced traveler, so Geralt sat down across from him. The man looked up at him with a nod of greeting.

Geralt was his usual talkative self. "Looking for a woman."

"Ahh, like everyone," he said flatly.

"Not like everyone, and not just anyone," Geralt elaborated, "Mine smells like lilac and gooseberries, dresses in black and white."

The man looked over to the bar. "Two schnappses!" he called out to Elsa, "It'll lift your spirits."

"Fine, I'll have a drink. Can we cut to the chase? You seen her or not?"

He leaned in closer, making eye contact with Geralt. "Yennefer of Vengerberg?"

Geralt blinked- twice, his eyes wide. The clunk of the mugs on the table brought him back to the moment. "Never mentioned her name."

"Yet you described her perfectly. And once I hear something, I never forget it. Can't help it."

Geralt was beginning to get a certain feeling about this man. He tilted his head. "What do you do? Who are you?"

"A mangy vagrant," he lithely claimed, "Gaunter O'Dim, at your service."

"Vagrant- that a profession now?"

"Ah, once a merchant of mirrors. The madding crowd dubbed me Master Mirror, or the Man of Glass."

Something about his cryptic response put Geralt on edge. O'Dim certainly stood out for his calm attitude toward Geralt, a complete stranger and obvious witcher. Secondly, his nicknames were strange- as a man who held many nicknames himself, he knew they were the result of a certain level of renown or infamy. Geralt found it hard to believe a merchant of the pedigree O'Dim's nicknames suggested would end up in this destitute position, let alone be so comfortable with his circumstances. Crazier things had happened though, and he seemed friendly enough for the time being, so Geralt forged ahead.

"How do you know Yennefer?"

"What a question. Master Dandelion's ballads, of course. The only way a humble merchant might hope to rub up against greatness. Unless, that is, he's as lucky as I am."

"Or runs into a _very_ patient witcher?"

O'Dim seemed to savor the moment. "Into Geralt of Rivia himself. The Butcher of Blaviken."

"Recognize me from Master Dandelion's ballads, too?"

He took an exaggerated swig of his drink. "To your health."

Geralt recognized a misdirection when he saw one. "You seen Yennefer?" he asked directly, hoping to conclude this conversation without a headache.

O'Dim leaned in, his tone earnest and expectant. "Deepest apologies, but I must ask: Is this about love?"

Geralt couldn't guess the intentions behind the query, but decided to provide the answer O'Dim clearly wanted, regardless of Geralt's own thoughts. "Guessed it, it's love."

"I knew it at once," he exclaimed.

"What do you know? Tell me."

"Before you appeared, it never occurred to me that might've been Yennefer. Who would've thought…"

"Get to the point."

"A Nilfgaardian scout from the local garrison saw her."

"Where?" Geralt pushed.

"At their camp. She rode in there- black and white, gooseberries and...yes I know," he cut off, seeing the witcher's impatient expression, "Had a terse exchange with the garrison commander and raced off." Geralt's mind went into overdrive at the news. _They let her go? Curious. On one hand, Nilfgaardians wouldn't kill a sorceress on sight, but they wouldn't go as far as letting her go either. In any case, encountering a sorceress would be noteworthy. They would know where she was headed, but let's see if he knows more..._

"Where to?" Geralt tried.

"I'm not omniscient. Ask at the garrison."

Geralt had figured it was a long shot. Despite it, O'Dim had provided a very strong lead. "Thanks," he said gratefully, despite his own suspicions of the man's background.

O'Dim stood and walked toward the exit. "We men of the road must stick together. Perhaps one day I'll be in trouble and you'll be nearby to help," he said cryptically.

 _With my luck, I'm counting on it._ Geralt topped off his drink before heading to the door with renewed enthusiasm.

He hadn't taken two steps out of the door until he ran into the tattooed man and his two lackeys from the inn.

"Done drinkin'?" slurred one of the lackeys, obviously still drunk.

Geralt nonchalantly glanced over each of them, unaffected by their intentions. "Mhm."

"Then fuck off."

The tattooed man spat on the ground in between him and Geralt. "Don't want your kind around here."

Geralt took a more interested look at the men. "Better round up someone else to help. Three of you don't stand a chance against me."

"Wha? I could fuck ye up by meself!" threatened lackey number two.

Geralt stepped closer. "If I had a bag over my head and my hands tied behind-" He stopped and gave it another thought, "Actually no, not even then."

Tattooed man angrily stomped forward, pushing his friends aside. "Chet, Lesh, back off. I'll teach this vagrant a lesson, man on freak."

He opened with a sloppy punch at Geralt's head. In the blink of an eye, Geralt raised his arm to block the strike and simultaneously thrust his other fist against tattoo man's throat. He staggered back, choking. Geralt immediately launched three quick punches into his solar plexus before following with an uppercut to the chin. The tattooed man limply fell backwards into the dirt, unconscious.

The other two charged as their friend fell. One tried to grab Geralt in a headlock. Geralt elbowed him in the side, loosening the man's grip. Pivoting out of his arms, the monster hunter socked the lackey in the nose before spinning around and seizing the other incoming foe and throwing him over his hip. The lackey landed roughly in between Geralt and the other lackey. He barely had a moment to stop rolling before Geralt used his face as a launching point, leaping at the one foe still on his feet. His fist slammed into the man's already broken nose, flattening him instantly.

Geralt took a look at the three unconscious men around him. "Nice meeting you," he quipped, and walked away. _Now to find out where this garrison is._

 **III**

As it turned out, Geralt only had to check the village notice board for the garrison's location- a slew of orders and notices from the local commander were nailed on it, all concerning the "civilization" of the local areas, a term they used to hide their contempt for Northerners. The garrison was stationed in and around the dilapidated ruins of the old lord's manor, a short trip to the northwest of White Orchard. The manor was perched on a small, steep hill next to the river, with a broken bridge extending across the river. Back when it flew Temerian colors, it monitored traffic in the river. Now in Nilfgaardian hands, it also monitored the populace.

Geralt tied Roach around a fence post at the base of the camp before making his way up the stairs. As he approached the gates, he was stopped by two guards.

"Military camp. No locals allowed without the express consent of the garrison commander," one of them said.

Geralt stared at him. "I look like a local to you?"

"You look like trouble," the other guard pointed out.

"Dead wrong," Geralt retorted, "I make trouble go away. I'm a witcher."

The guard's brow shot up. "A witcher…" He and his partner shared a thoughtful look. "Captain Peter Saar Gwynleve is in the tower. Turn right, past the gate," he said in a much more cooperative tone.

"Huh, you Black Ones aren't so scary after all. Can even be nice if you want to."

The guard frowned. "Don't get accustomed, Nordling."

"To the tower. Go," his partner ordered.

Geralt entered the camp and was treated to a full view of the disciplined Nilfgaardian war machine. The invaders from the south had set up an organized perimeter of tents, all decorated with the black, white, and gold colors of the empire. The Nilfgaardian sun covered every surface imaginable- tent flaps, flags, armor. Most soldiers were busy with some task or the other- cleaning weapons and armor, standing guard, or standing in line to grab a midday meal.

The tower was on the far side of the ruins. Geralt walked up the steps leading to the open entrance. Inside, Captain Gwynleve was sitting at a basic wood table, clad in shining officer's plate, speaking with a local peasant.

"We must requisition a share of your harvest. How much grain will your village give?" he asked calmly, his speech carrying a heavy Nilfgaardian accent.

"Whatever you say, Your Excellency," the peasant said nervously.

The captain stood up. "Look at my hands," he ordered. The peasant, shocked, didn't move. "Look! See the calluses?" The peasant turned his head down and nodded numbly. "These are not the hands of an 'Excellency,' but of a farmer. So we speak peasant to peasant. How much can you give?"

"F-forty bushels. There'd be more, sir, but our lads, the Temerians, that is, took from us earlier and…"

"You will give thirty, and that will do" Gwynleve said firmly, "Let us settle on it. And I wish to see the transport soon."

"Ah, thank you, sir! Thank you kindly!" The peasant ducked his head and left quickly.

Geralt approached the captain, who turned his gaze toward the witcher. "I summoned only the ealdorman and the smith, Willis- but it is said that he is a dwarf. You are too tall to be him," he pointed out, a hint of a question in his tone.

"Very perceptive of you," Geralt deadpanned. "Geralt of Rivia. Witcher."

Gwynleve's gaze turned thoughtful. "A vatt'ghern- this explains why I did not hear your footsteps. What do you seek here?"

Vatt'ghern was the word for "witcher" in the Elder Speech, the tongue of the Elves and the basis for languages in the southern realms. "Yennefer of Vengerberg. Where was she headed?"

His answer was less than forthcoming. "That is a military secret."

Geralt frowned at the evasion. However, he always had a sense for when somebody was going to ask him for something. He had a good idea what the captain was going to ask. Resigned, he pushed forward. "Haven't thrown me out yet. Haven't called the guards. So go ahead- what's your price?"

"There is a griffin in the area," Gwynleve said carefully, "Slay it, and then I shall see what I can do."

Geralt appraised the man. "Why do you care about this griffin?"

"Because I care about people," the captain replied solemnly, before turning away to gaze out an opening in the tower, "The beast has killed ten already. Including a few of my men. To hunt it, I would need to mobilize the entire garrison, comb the woods, organize a battue. Simply impossible."

"Too big a hassle?"

"No. Too high a risk." He walked back to Geralt. "I cannot disperse my forces. Temeria's army we have crushed, but its common folk remain, ready to answer a call to arms. So as to this griffin, I can sit on my hands… or hire a professional."

Geralt considered his options. He wasn't sold on Gwynleve's sincerity toward the villagers, but he could respect his logic. _Besides, a trade is a trade. Nilfgaardians pride themselves on upholding agreements._ "It's a deal. Some questions before I start. Know where the griffin has its lair?"

He gestured toward a map of White Orchard on the table. "It kept to the Vulpine Woods at first. I sent a patrol there, five young men. A hunter found them two days on. I only recognized them because they wore our plate," he grimly recounted, "Since then, the griffin has grown bold. Attacks in villages, fields, on the main road."

"Meaning it's abandoned its lair," Geralt concluded, "Gonna have to set a trap."

Gwynleve took a look at his new business partner's expression. "I judge from your tone that this will not be easy. What do you require?"

The first thing was to figure out as much as possible about the target. "Need more information about this griffin. Its sex, why it's abandoned its lair."

"Shall I bring you witnesses?" the captain tried.

The witcher shook his head negatively. "They won't say anything I don't already know. I need to go where your men died, look around. What's the name of the hunter who found them?"

"Mislav. He has a hut south of the village, very near the wood. Helpful fellow." Gwynleve paused, as if searching for the correct words, "A little strange, though."

 _Interesting, wonder what that could mean._ _Seems like a solid lead for more clues. Physical evidence always say more than witnesses. Now, the other thing was_ \- "I'll need bait, a specific herb- buckthorn. Scent should lure the griffin from ten miles off."

"Buck- buckthorn?" he repeated haltingly, "I do not know this. But I am not yet fluent in the Common tongue."

"Mhm. Probably mastered the basics though- ''Hands up,' 'kill them.'"

The captain pursed his lips. "No. First came idioms. 'Don't play with fire,' for example. Go to Tomira, an herbalist. She lives near the crossroads. She will aid you."

Geralt, unfazed, ignored his unspoken warning. "Tomira and Mislav. Thanks."

He nodded curtly. " _Good hunting to you,_ " he said in Nilfgaardian.

With his task cut out for him, Geralt exited the camp and descended to the waterfront. _Which one first? The sooner I find the site the better, but the herbalist is closer. Besides, if I'm unlucky, buckthorn may take time to find. Need to tackle that possibility first._ His decision made, Geralt untied Roach and started down the path to the crossroads and Tomira the herbalist.

 **III**

"Whoa! Master witcher!"

Geralt had barely made it through the swamp surrounding the garrison's camp when he was hailed by a lone man sitting around a campfire off to the side of the road. Deciding to investigate, Geralt guided Roach over to him.

On closer inspection, Geralt thought the man looked pretty capable- he was decently built with a longbow strapped onto his back. A quick look at his face however, and even a blind man could tell he looked rather distraught.

"What happened?"

"Monsters! Monsters from the swamp!" he cried without preamble, "Folk said the road was fraught with peril, but I wouldn't listen! Got my comeuppance now!"

Geralt shook his head wearily. _Yep, distraught_. "Less moaning, more details. What happened? And how can I help? And remember, I don't work for free- witcher's code and all."

The man took a deep breath before continuing. "Well, was on my way to the Black One's to trade. Suddenly, my horse got spooked, ran clear off the road. We hit a bump. I went flying, and the horse and cart rolled. Then I heard bubbling, neighing...slurping! Something came out from the muck, devoured Asher, hooves and all! No doubt my goods are still on the cart… but I'm too afeared to go and see. Thought maybe you…? I'm most concerned about a little box. Bring it to me, I beg you."

 _Sounds like it could be drowners or water hags._ It seemed like a simple cut and dry job to Geralt. "Fine. I'll go. Let you know if I find that box."

"Oh thank you! I shall await you here!"

Geralt began to retrace his steps into the swamp. It only took him a minute of walking to find his first clue. "Cart tracks. Rode off into the swamp," he muttered.

Following the tracks, Geralt began to slog his way through the shallow waters of the bog, the soft sloshing of his boots the only sound he made. He could hear the characteristic gagging noises of drowners in the distance. Drowners were grotesque, blue-green necrophages that looked like corpses from afar. Common legend would suggest them to be the risen bodies of humans who had drowned. However, any closer inspection would reveal large differences in their body shape not to mention their claws, fins, and gills. Weak and cowardly creatures, they usually roamed in packs and only attacked lone travelers. To a witcher, drowners were no challenge at all. Geralt's best friend Dandelion would often joke that drowners could only kill a witcher if he was drunk- or in love.

A short while later, he came upon the wreckage of the cart. The wheel spokes were bent at sharp angles, its cargo strewn all over the place. Another horse's corpse lay next to the cart, its body skewered by- "An arrow...Didn't mention this." Geralt glanced once more at the cart. _Cart's riddled with arrows too._ _Hmm. Only one person carrying a bow I can think of._

Near the cart was a body Geralt presumed was the cart driver. "Square in the neck. Good shot." _Either the merchant has serious memory problems, or he's lying._ Now driven more by curiosity than obligation to the job, Geralt did his due diligence investigating the site. That is, he dug around the discarded goods pocketing any useful materials- alchemical ingredients, precious metals, a few Novigrad crowns on top of it all. _At least the goods are consistent with military needs. That part of the story checks out._ Finally, he dug out a small, locked chest. "Must be the box he mentioned. Spattered with blood...human blood."

As he finished his search, the mud around him began bubbling. _Drowners are here._ He drew his silver sword and readied himself. Moments later, a half dozen of the slimy corpse feeders began to emerge from the ground.

Geralt lunged at the closest drowner, his sword cleaving its head clear off. He followed it up by letting loose a stream of Igni at the next drowner, which flailed around, aflame. Before he could finish it off, another charged at the witcher's flank. Geralt dodged away from the leaping drowner's claws and counterattacked, slicing the drowner from end to end. He followed through with a pirouette, hacking at the next drowner who had ventured within his striking distance.

The attackers, now numbering only three, circled around Geralt, looking for an opening. Rather than pursue one of them, Geralt stood still, watching, sensing them. The drowners kept stalking in slow circles, their large pale eyes staring right back. Finally, one of them howled and dove at Geralt. This urged the other two to charge in as well, looking to overwhelm him with numbers. Geralt remained still, unflinchingly. Suddenly, they all leapt, claws outstretched and ready to rend, and at the moment, the witcher knelt down and slammed his hand into the ground.

A blast erupted outwards, with the witcher at the epicenter. The drowners were flattened violently and laid there, completely dazed. Geralt rose from his crouch, reversing the grip on his sword to sink his blade into the heart of each beast.

Geralt paused, searching for any more signs of drowners. Sensing nothing, he sheathed his sword and pulled out his knife, walking over to his kills. Just about every monster had useful parts to them. It was automatic for witchers to harvest from their kills and replenish their stock.

Feeling like he had seen all there was to see, Geralt wrapped up his business and began heading back to the lying merchant's campsite. Along the way, he wondered about the man's motivation. _A bandit who lost his target to the drowners? Why would he hire someone to fetch his loot for him?_

Once back to the camp, the white haired witcher announced himself. "I'm back."

The merchant stood quickly. "Oh! And? You find the box?"

Geralt stared at the longbow the "merchant" still had slung across his back. "Yeah, found your priceless chest. And someone who looks an awful lot like a cart driver...with an arrow through his neck."

The merchant began to fidget. Geralt continued his conclusions, "No dryads in these swamps, and never known a drowner or a water hag to use a bow." He folded his arms across his chest. "So, lacking any other suspects, I'm guessing-"

The "merchant" began to look around wildly for an escape, before pulling out the oldest trick in the book. "Watch out! Behind you!"

Geralt didn't even twitch. "There's nothing behind me. I'm a witcher, I'd have heard it." He leaned in closer, before growling, "Just like I can hear your heart. Which is pounding...like a _liar's_."

Realizing he had been made, said liar bolted for his horse without another word.

"Best hope you're a better rider than a liar," Geralt taunted.

The man began to flee south down the road. Geralt whistled for Roach, who trotted over from her grazing spot. He swung over her saddle and urged her after his quarry. As it turned out, the fake merchant was a decent rider, able to maneuver his horse through a few obstacles in the road. Unfortunately for him, his pursuer had been riding horses for nearly a century and was a world-class master on the saddle. In only a few seconds, Geralt had closed the gap between them. He drew his steel sword and quickly spurred Roach parallel to the other horse. Just as Roach sped past the other horse, he leaned over the saddle and slammed the pommel of his blade into the merchant's skull. The timing was perfect and the momentum toppled the merchant right off of his mount and into the roadside grass.

Pulling Roach around, Geralt came back to the man's unconscious form. "Gotta get outta here, away from the road." He dragged him a little further into the field and laid him down, intending to get the full story once he woke up.

Geralt wasn't in the most patient mood though. He only waited a moment before he started nudging the merchant with his foot. "Wake up."

After a few kicks, the merchant groggily began to sit up to the sight of a witcher demanding answers. "See, can't run from the truth...not even on horseback. Now, who are you? And why'd you attack that cart?"

He shook his head a few times before rising to his feet. This time, his voice was even and firm, his posture straight and defiant. "Private First Class John Geermer. Temerian Sixth Division, Second Regiment. Disbanded, but still active- underground, in the woods. That was a medical transport. I'll be damned if it reached the Black Ones. And the medicine, our lads could use it too. We've many ill among us." Geermer stepped forward, unafraid. "You let me go, and they might live...and fight once more for a free North."

Geralt was momentarily taken aback by the man's true identity and attitude shift. _So that's what's in this box. Medicine._ Geralt crossed his arms. He certainly held no allegiance toward the Nilfgaardians, so turning him in was pointless. He had no use for most medicines for common men, for his witcher potions and mutagens were far superior. Ultimately, while he had no desire to get involved with the fight between Temerian guerillas and Nilfgaardian forces, he could sympathize with underdogs and people who were trying to defend their homes. After all the trouble the private had put him through though, he wasn't about to let him know that.

"Fine, go. And may you and your soldier buddies hiding in the bushes be victorious in your struggle against Nilfgaard." Geralt took the box out of his pack and handed it over.

The Temerian accepted it with a wry smile. "You've a vile sense of humor...but you're a decent man. Here." He handed Geralt a sack in exchange. "The gold I promised. Use it well- drink to the silver lilies and to Foltest's memory."

With those parting words, the private reclaimed his horse and dashed off.

Geralt pocketed the gold and took a closer look at his surroundings. Just a little bit ahead, the road forked into two different directions. _Looks like the place I was looking for._ Geralt jumped back onto Roach and was about to get moving when he realized something important. _Wait, where is this herbalist in relation to the crossroads?_ There was no sign of a hut or the smell of herbs in the air. So without a better option, Geralt randomly chose a path and hoped to run into someone along the way, cursing the captain for his vague instructions.

 **III**

The road he had chosen turned out to be the wrong direction. It wasn't for naught though: along the way, he ran into a group of terrified peasants who had lost their homes to a pack of ghouls. They had pleaded with Geralt to save their homes and promised a reward. It had been easy coin, and the villagers gratefully thanked him for his work and gave him detailed instructions to the herbalist.

So a few crowns richer and a little more tired, Geralt trudged up to the hut he assumed was the herbalist's. The path was technically right off the crossroads but was tucked into a few small hills. The small, winding path was flanked by pots of various flowers. Beyond the hut, he could identify an impressive selection of plants useful in potion brewing growing in an extensive garden. _She clearly knows what she's doing._ All in all, it had a very earthy charm to it.

He knocked on the door and was answered by a feminine voice telling him to come inside. Entering the humble hut, Geralt was greeted by an grim situation. Laying on the bed was a young woman with bloody bandages around her midsection. She was unconscious, the patterns of the blood on the wraps indicating large gash marks. Tomira stood preoccupied at her workstation, sorting through numerous ingredients and pieces of equipment, not even turning her head at Geralt's entry. Even from the back, Geralt could tell she was a very comely woman, with deep brown-black hair cascading down to her lower back.

"Is this a bad time?"

"Not at all. Hand me the beggartick. It's the...red bloom," she paused when Geralt handed her the correct plant. "Well, well, someone well versed in herbs."

"Probably saying too much...but I know a bit- for instance, that beggartick's poisonous."

"In large doses. Small ones soothe pain and bring forth pleasant dreams." She gazed at her patient and frowned sadly. "Which is all I can hope to do for her."

Geralt followed her gaze. "Griffin do that to her?"

"To Lena? Yes. Attacked her last night. She was walkin' in the woods."

"At night...through the woods? In wartime?"

"Meeting a boy. The young, you know...do foolish things for love. Wounds are healing, but she will die. Blood's poolin' in her skull. Nothing my brews can do to help."

Geralt hesitated, before deciding to suggest another option. "Could try to help her with one of my potions. Swallow can heal internal hemorrhages…"

"But?"

"Witchers' potions aren't for humans."

"She'll die as is."

"Yes. A peaceful death, soothed by your concoctions. If I give her Swallow and something goes wrong, the whole village will hear her screams."

Tomira took a moment to consider the situation, before nodding softly. "I understand. Do as you will."

He looked at Lena's still form, not entirely convinced about the right decision. For starters, he did not know nearly enough to judge Swallow's possible benefits on a case by case basis with normal humans. The pain- the pain he could imagine though. The pain would be insufferable. He shook his head to clear away those memories. It wasn't truly his place to decide what to do for the girl, but fate would have him be the only one who could.

"I'll collect the ingredients and return with a dose. Decide then what to do."

Tomira accepted his words solemnly. "I'll be able to keep her stable in the meantime. Whatever may happen, thank you for tryin' to help. This must've been the last thing you expected when you walked through the door. What was it you sought?

His decision made, Geralt transitioned back to the original task at hand. "Looking for buckthorn. Know if it grows anywhere around here?"

"Mhm. Bottom of the river, where the channel's widest. But you do know that once out of the water…"

"It'll stink more than a week-old carcass? Counting on it. I'm hunting the griffin. Need the buckthorn for bait."

"I was thinkin'... a few years ago we had trouble, drowners under the bridge. Whole village had to pitch in for a witcher. Who now can afford the bounty on a griffin's head?"

"Captain Peter Saar...something something."

"Ah. Good to know the Black One's are lookin' out for our welfare."

"Nilfgaard values one thing- order. Griffin's disturbing that, it's gotta go."

"Yes. First they'll tend to the monsters, then to the folk."

Something in her tone seemed off. "Not from here, are you?"

She inclined her head but neither confirmed nor denied his conjecture.

"Lot of bitterness in you. Too much for someone who's spent her life in a hut in the middle of nowhere."

"True. And you're in a hurry. Elsewise you'd not use bait, just wait for the griffin to attack again."

Geralt was impressed by her perceptiveness. "Believe we could have an interesting conversation."

She smiled. "Maybe once you're back."

Gathering the ingredients for Swallow did not take long. Every witcher knew the formula by heart: celandine, a common weed; dwarven spirit, a common alcohol; and drowner brains, a less common item, but easily accessible for witchers. The spirit he had found in the medical transport, and Geralt had harvested the brains from the drowners he killed. All he had to do was dig around the garden for the celandine and then it was a matter of mixing the ingredients together and allowing the alcohol some time to break down the other ingredients.

Only a little while later, Geralt returned to the hut with the vials in hand. Tomira was sitting by her patient and looked up, surprised at his entrance.

"Witcher! I did not expect you so soon."

"Had most of the ingredients already. All we have to do now is wait for the potion to finish." He placed the bright red potion on the table.

"Have you decided if you'll administer it to her?"

Geralt shook his head. "No."

"Only thing to do is wait then. Please, make yourself comfortable." She pulled out a chair at the table for Geralt.

Geralt continued the conversation they had left off on. "Tell me something about yourself. What's your story?"

She silently finished administering her medicines before sighing softly. "A sad one. Do you know the Temple of Melitele in Ellander?"

Geralt's face lit up. "Do I know it? Don't know how many times I've been there, how many times Mother Nenneke stitched me up."

"We must have missed each other. I studied to be a healer under Mother Nenneke." Her face had a wistful look. "Hmm...I was but eighteen when they took me in. An age which teachings interest one far less than love."

"There was a boy- Gostav. He'd bare his chest to work. The novices couldn't keep their eyes off of him- tripped over their own feet, dropped things." Tomira's wistful tone turned more wooden. "I left the temple for him. We passed a lovely summer together, and then he left."

"Nenneke refused to take me back. My parents uttered not a word, gave me a travel cloak and a small coin pouch. I struggled long to find a place where I'd feel safe, needed. Until I finally arrived here. End of story."

Geralt could sense a lot of regret and sadness about her past. _The priests always were rather stern. That's harsh, to be discarded for a small mistake at that age._ "I'm sorry," he said.

She shook her head. "There's no need. I've lead a decent life, been able to help folk."

"Do you like it here? Villagers are often suspicious of healers."

"Well enough, yes. White Orchard sees enough travelers that they didn't think much of it when one of them settled nearby. And the area is quite beautiful, even with the war coming through."

Geralt could agree about the rustic beauty in the area. "You mentioned previous experience with the Nilfgaardians."

"I did. I wandered for awhile, healing people and getting by. Saw a lot of places during the Second War the Black Ones had ransacked." She looked over Lena's prone form. "Treated a lot of poor souls during that time."

Geralt followed the herbalist's gaze. It was just about time for him to make a decision. He picked up the vial from the table and inspected it. "Swallow should be done now."

Tomira regarded the red liquid curiously. "First sign of spring, symbol of rebirth...fitting as names go."

Geralt switched seats with Tomira, finally taking a close look at the young woman on the bed. For the most part, she was wearing the same clothes she must have been when meeting her lover. Her head was starting to swell from the build-up of blood. Her face showed few of the signs of weathering a life of manual labor inevitably produced. _Still too young for that._ _Should've had a lot of life ahead of her._ The bleeding around her midsection had stopped, but the coloring of her skin was still very pale from the blood loss. It was clear she would not wake from her wounds. He held the potion over her mouth. _The chance it will work is low. But at least it's a chance._ His resolve hardened, Geralt poured it down her throat.

With the deed done, he looked over at Tomira. "Like I said, could harm her. Deeply. Works on me immediately, but I have a faster metabolism. Effects won't appear in her case for a few days."

Tomira was silent for a few moments. "Why'd you choose this in the end?" she asked quietly.

Geralt looked over Lena once more. "Decided it was better than doing nothing," he finally said.

Tomira gave him a considering look. "I like you witcher. Here- a small gift from me." She handed the witcher a parcel full of herbs. She then leaned in and gave him a kiss on the cheek. "And that's for giving a damn," she said, smiling.

 **III**

Geralt was kneeling near the docks by the outskirts of town, scoping the river for likely buckthorn locations. The waters were calm and clear and the mid-afternoon sun was shining clearly on this day. _As good a day as any for diving after small, pungent plants._

He began unbuckling his armor for the dive when his stomach growled loudly, which reminded him that he hadn't eaten all day. "Maybe I should save this dive for after lunch. Gotta be something leftover at the inn."

He started walking back in the village when he saw an elderly woman standing outside a hut, ranting to herself.

"Last time I lend out anythin', I swear it! Wait, somethin' moved...Hey! Anyone home?"

She kept peering through the hut's window. By the look of things, no one had lived there for years. Geralt, curious, veered her way.

"Lost your key ma'am?"

"No, not me key, me pan! It's always sat there empty, this hut. That is, 'till the night afore the battle. A man arrived, walked right in like 'twere his own. Was starin' at me window, peerin' at the goin's-on… He must've eyed me, 'cause next I knew, there he was comin' my way!"

Geralt opened his mouth to speak. "Int-"

"So I grabbed me pan- for protection, see. But then he asks all polite, 'Gran, got any birchmark by chance? Lilac berries, or even a few coals?' Nay, says I! And you must be right daft to pester folk at night with such tomfoolery!"

"Sure, but-"

"But I sees he ain't listenin'. Just staring at me pan, like a magpie at a copper! 'Lend it to me, Gran, I'll give it back come morn.' Was right baffled, for what's he doin' fryin' in the dark? But I've a soft 'eart, so I gave it to 'im."

Geralt jumped in while she took a breath. "Fascinating story. Any chance you're nearing the end?"

Gran shook her head vigorously. "Afore dawn, another rode up to the hut. But come morn', only the first fella left. Locked the door, hopped on his horse, and that were all I saw of him- and me pan! 'Twere old, black with soot, not worth much, I 'spose- but I've no other!"

"Will you 'elp me dearie? Bring an old woman her pan? I could never break down the door meself...And in truth I'm afeared to go in anyroad. Such a stench waftin' out. Methinks the other fellow...well, he's lyin' there."

Geralt mentally sighed. _Can't believe I'm considering this. Still, sounds like a little more than an unneighborly act._ "Never taken on a pan contract," he mused. "Fine, I'll go in, look around." _Dandelion is going to have a field day with this one._

He walked up to the rusted and rotten door. "You should wait out here, just in case," he warned, before blasting the door down with Aard. A cloud of dust came tumbling out of the doorway, as well as the overwhelming smell of rotting flesh. Geralt walked in the hut and was greeted by a lot of old, dilapidated furniture. No one had lived here regularly in quite some time. When Geralt walked into the main room of the hut, he found the source of the smell- a corpse, slumped against the wall, right by the window the gran was standing at. Crouching next to it, Geralt began examining the body. "Hmm. His throat was garroted. Then some old scars. Kind an old soldier might have," he mumbled.

"What's that, dearie?"

He stood up quickly. "Nothing! Nothing."

He peered around the room some more. Signs of a struggle were everywhere- upended chairs, flipped tables, household items scattered around the floor. One unusual item stood out to from the rest though. "Cracked monocle. Interesting." Geralt pocketed it.

"But when I gab to meself, they say I'm going _barmy!_ "

Ignoring her remarks, he moved into the kitchen. Geralt quickly spotted his target sitting on the table. "Ah. The priceless frying pan. Hmm, scrubbed clean." He glanced at the large number of candles and parchment. "Looks like the mystery man didn't need the pan so much as the soot off of it...to make ink, write letters."

"Found the pan, have ye?"

Continuing to ignore the anxious gran, he bent down to look in the stone oven. After a bit of digging, he found a stack of burned documents, which he fished out. Most of them were entirely burnt, but a few were still legible.

Geralt read over the first note. "'Standing there with my ploughing cock in my hands, waiting for nothing.' Looks like some Temerians had trouble trying to make a deal with the Nilfgaardians. Perhaps someone caught them in the act, or betrayed them?" He spent the next few minutes flipping through the rest of the pile, trying to piece together the scattered bits of information. Whoever had borrowed the pan had been careful, but rushed for time- Geralt could make out a pattern of meetings between agents, starting a time after Temeria had fallen to Nilfgaard.

"FOUND THE PAN, HAVE YE?"

Geralt flipped through the last of the scraps of paper. That was all it was: scraps. None of it added up to a significant bit of intelligence that was dangerous in the wrong hands. His gut told him there was a little more to the situation, but there no more clues to follow. Having solved the immediate mystery, Geralt stuffed the letters in his bag and grabbed the all-important pan. He exited the house, where the gran was waiting.

"Here- your frying pan."

"Mine…? But mine were black with soot! And I could see meself in this 'un if I wanted. But them years're past…"

"It was the soot the man needed. He scraped it off to make ink. Must've had an urgent letter to write. Urgently burned some other documents, too."

"And… and the other fellow?"

"Dead. Round up a few boys and bury him outside the village. Deep, so the necrophages don't dig him up. And take my advice...don't mention this to the Nilfgaardians."

His good deed for the day complete, Geralt made to leave.

"Hang about! You've earned a token o' thanks. Here sonny, got this from me larder while you were in there- for the road."

She pressed a bulging sack into his hands before smiling and walking off, pan in hand. "Mmm, fry up a nice whitefish for supper, or a pike!"

Geralt opened the sack and was pleasantly surprised by its contents. Inside a large loaf of bread, a sizable cut of cheese, a bunch of apples, and a jug full of apple juice. _Better than a bag of crowns._ He pulled an apple out and tossed it to Roach, before biting into one himself. A trip to the village saved, Geralt walked back to the docks.

 **III**

Geralt, hair still wet and clothes still damp, walked into the White Orchard Inn and looked around for his old mentor. He found him at the table from earlier, nursing another mug of ale.

"Well, it looks like you've had a busy day," Vesemir said, before catching a whiff of Geralt's scent. "Smells like you've had busy day too."

Geralt grumbled as he slid into the seat across from Vesemir. Swimming out to the middle of the river and then diving to the bottom, Geralt had found an abundance of buckthorn. Just as Tomira had warned, the plant started reeking of rotting flesh as soon as he surfaced, which persisted even after a vigorous scrubbing at the shore.

"Got good news and bad news. Good news first- captain of the Nilfgaardian garrison knows where Yennefer went-"

"-And the bad's that we have to kill the griffin for him," Vesemir finished.

Geralt paused. His fellow witcher passed him a second mug during his silence. "What else could he want from two witchers? Go on, tell me what you know."

The white haired witcher took a sip. "Griffin's abandoned its lair. Gotta make a lure, set a trap."

"And how's that going?"

"Got the buckthorn, for starters."

"Oughta work like a charm. Powerful scent."

"More like stench," Geralt grumbled.

"City boy. Rotting meat, manure, piss- standard smells of the countryside. Remember Tretogor, hunting that zeugl in the trash heap? You spent half the next day bathing, scrubbing yourself!"

"How can I forget? You ever gonna stop bringing that up?"

"Hm-hm. Ask me again next time I bring it up," he chuckled, before getting back on topic, "What else do you know?"

"Nest is somewhere in the Vulpine Woods, to the south. Local hunter's supposed to know of a spot where a Nilfgaardian squad was attacked. Gonna go find him tomorrow. Only other thing is to find a suitable spot for the ambush."

"You investigate the camp site, I'll find the ambush location. Scout the local fields for a good spot."

"Sounds good. Meet back here when we're done?"

Vesemir nodded in agreement. Their serious work finished, a comfortable silence fell over the two companions. Geralt took a couple more sips of his ale before looking at Vesemir's shoulder.

"How's the wound healing?"

"Bleeding stopped a little after you left the inn. It's a little sore, but it should be fine with a good night's rest."

"Glad to hear it. Might leave a nice scar- remind you to dodge a little quicker next time."

"And how about that fiend in Vorune, hmm? Beast nearly gored you with its antlers."

"Important part is that it missed. Doesn't count." Geralt stared down into his drink. "Realize it's been half a year since we hunted that thing down?"

"Yes. Though that was more than a fiend. What was that bastard's name? Drugan?" Vesemir made a disgusted noise. "May the soil lie light upon him."

His eyes had on a faraway look in them. "Things used to be easier. Monsters were bad, humans good. Now, everything's all confused," he lamented.

"Used to be _exactly_ the same. You've just forgotten."

"Do well not to point out my age. You're nearly a century old yourself."

Geralt smirked. "Just _how_ old are you now, Vesemir? Gotta be like-"

"-Remember that time in Tretogor? The trash heaps, the zeu-"

"Alright, alright, I'll drop it," Geralt backtracked quickly.

It was Vesemir's turn to crack a smirk. "Here, let me go get us some fresh drinks," he said placatingly, taking his and Geralt's mugs to the counter.

Geralt took the time to glance at the other patrons in the inn. He saw none of the faces from the morning, not even the naive scholar. He took a deep breath and sat back, the first moment all day he had to think about the events of the day. If everything with the griffin went well, he would have a definitive lead on Yennefer's whereabouts in the next twenty-four hours. After so many false trails, dead ends, and the ups and downs of the Path, it was a little surreal to be within reach of his goal.

As he had done dozens of times before, he reached into his bag and pulled out her letter. Even though he knew it by heart, he read her words over again, written with soft, angular penmanship:

 _Dear friend,_

 _Forgive me for not asking about your health or how you have been these last years. Time is very short._

 _I have important news. We must meet, and soon. Ride to Willoughby, near Vizima, and don't spare the horses - while I do eagerly await our reunion, I won't be able to wait, eagerly or otherwise, very long._

 _Your dear friend,_

 _Yennefer._

 _P.S. I still have the unicorn._

"'Dear friend'," Geralt repeated to himself with a soft, rueful smile. Yennefer always knew how to say many things at the same time. It was a phrase he himself had once used to address her in a letter a long time ago, in one of the many periods where they had been estranged. Their relationship over the past twenty years had experienced many pits and valleys, but that was a particularly low point. They hadn't spoken to each other in three years at the time, and Geralt had been extremely reluctant to contact her. But he had needed her help teaching Ciri, so he had fumbled through a request for her aid, mixing in banal inquiries into her health.

Geralt shook his head at the memory. The response he had received was ruthlessly biting and sarcastic, making a veiled mockery of the idea she was simply his "dear friend" and criticizing his ham-fisted way of dancing around the uncertainty between them. But just as in real life, she easily saw through his guarded words, heard his unspoken feelings. She knew he had never stopped thinking about her, and missed her immensely. So despite her ire, she had agreed to his proposal and dropped everything to help him and his daughter. It was much later before he realized her actions were also because she felt the exact same way.

Now here they were again, having not seen each other for years and unsure of what they had. Only this time, Yennefer was the one nervously reaching out to him, attempting to express her feelings without saying them- in her own uniquely subtle, proud, and sincere way.

He took a long draft of lilacs and gooseberries. "I miss you too, Yen," he whispered.

 **III**

 **A/N:** Fun fact: Geralt did indeed ask for her help in the manner just described, and Yen responded in kind. I read her response, and it was an absolute treat of sarcasm and wit. It's some of the most fantastic characterization you'll find within a note. That a simple letter in this game could signal so much is a testament to the detail and love CDProjektRed put into this game- and it's only the beginning.

Next time on The Last Contract, we'll continue to make our way through White Orchard as Geralt investigates the griffin contract.

Many thanks to carolcat for being my encouraging sounding board and editor for this chapter. As always, thank you for reading, and I'll see you soon!

-HyperS


	3. Lilac and Gooseberries

**Chapter 2**

 **Lilac and Gooseberries  
**

The next morning found Geralt and Vesemir continuing their work on the griffin contract in earnest. Vesemir went off to the outskirts of the village to scout out suitable ambush sites. In the meantime, it was Geralt's intention to visit Mislav's cabin before he left for the day's hunt. As a master tracker himself, he knew it would be hard to convince a hunter to abandon his hunt once underway. So to save himself some trouble and avoid antagonizing a source of information, Geralt was taking an early morning trek toward the Vulpine Woods.

Geralt walked down the main road of the village. The rising sun peaked over the hills, casting long, tinted shadows over his surroundings. It late enough in the spring so the air was not cold at the hour, and the rays of the sun warmed Geralt's back. He took a deep breath, taking in the sounds and smells of the countryside. They were Geralt's only companions as he continued through the sleepy village: the chirping of birds, the grunts of livestock, the smells of manure and piss, and… _the smell of ashes? Hmm, something caught fire last night?_

On his way past the main thoroughfare, he stopped to look at the notice board. Most of the notices were the same as yesterday, except for a new slip of parchment that read "Devil by the Well!".

"Sounds like a monster problem to me," he said to himself. He plucked the contract off of the board and read it over. 'Speak to Odalan, at the farm on the outskirts of town'." Interested in the chance for more work, Geralt pocketed the paper and continued on.

Geralt could now pick up the sounds of someone pounding a hammer on an anvil- irregularly, and harder than necessary. _He's angry._ The smell of ash began to overpower any other scent, and Geralt could pick out a burned out rooftop in the distance. _Must be the smith's house. There wasn't any commotion last night, and that hut is close enough to other buildings where the fire could spread. So why didn't anyone react?_ Feeling the need to investigate, he approached the house. _I'm probably early anyways._

As he entered the front lawn of the hut, he finally sighted the smith- a dwarf, who was screaming out to no one in particular. _Must be Willis, according to the captain._

"Fifty...years...of work...up in smoke! What the fuck am I to do?! Eh?! What?!""

Willis' house and forge was completely burnt out. The roof had partially collapsed, and the blackening from the smoke and fire had caught most of the adjacent stall. All that was left was a dirty old cot, various tools spread out in the yard, and the anvil where the dwarf was still hammering away. Geralt stepped up behind him.

"What happened here?" he asked mildly.

The dwarf spun around, waving his hammer around wildly. "Oh, got a wee bit chilly last night, so I set fire to my forge. Got it nice and roarin'! Roasted some weiners!" His words become even more hysterical. "Whaddaya think happened, dimwit? Some bugger set alight me...me workshop! I've lost everythin'. Everythin'!"

 _Arson, from his own neighbors. Ouch._ "Sorry," Geralt said in a low tone. "Any suspects?"

Willis seemed to calm down a tiny bit when he realized Geralt was genuinely interested in his plight. "Whole damned village. I've lived here half a century. Thought they saw me as one o' their own. But everythin' changed when the Black Ones came. I'm the only smith around, so I got to service their garrison. Band dents out o' plate, shoe their horses- that kinda thing." He sighed sadly and started pacing slowly. "Nilfgaardians don't pay me a bloody copper, just give me supplies and orders. But humans can't fathom that. They think I'm gettin' rich off their misfortune, that I sleep on a pile o' gold like a ploughin' dragon. They've stopped talkin' to me, spit when I pass...and now this."

Geralt nodded commiseratingly. People were often quick to blame others different than them for their woes. "I can find your arsonist. Provided you're willing to pay." A job was still a job.

"Huh. I've not much left...but I'll give ye all if ye bring me that whoreson. So that he gets what he deserves," he growled. "Last night, I heard movement outside my hut. Went out to see if I could find any tracks, but found nothin'. But then I haven't got cat eyes, have I? Good luck."

Geralt went around the back of the building to look around. He did a once over on the area and immediately found a pile of white shavings a few yards behind the hut. "From a tinderbox. Arsonist must've lit his torch here, tossed it on the roof...then fled through the orchard."

He could pick out a set of prints on the ground. "Boot prints. Large. Definitely male."

The prints meandered through the orchard, but were generally headed toward the river. Geralt came up close to one of the trees and found an empty bottle by the roots. He smelled the air and wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Stinks of piss...and vodka."

Eventually, the tracks began following a small path behind the village, which led down to the riverbank. Geralt followed them until they ended in the water at the foot of a stone bridge. He noticed the prints had changed shape in the final steps to the water. "Took off his boots before going in the water. Probably wanted to cover his trail," he concluded.

Geralt glanced up at the Nilfgaardian watchtower sitting on the opposite of the bridge. _Probably didn't cross to the other side if he was a local._ Following his hunch, he stayed on his side of the river and went around the bridge. His guess was rewarded with a bunch of tracks crisscrossing over one another. There was also a splatter of blood on the sand. "Something jumped out of the rushes." Geralt noted the other set of prints were webbed, with sharp claws for toes. "Drowners. But he managed to escape. Lost his boots in the rush."

He stood up and eyed the footprints, now mixed with light amounts of blood on the ground. "Bleeding...but not badly. Surface wound. Tracks lead back to the village." Eventually, they led him to one of the huts near the inn. Geralt walked into the building without ceremony and began looking around for his arsonist. It was child's play at this point- there was only one person in the house, and he was leaning against the wall with a heavily bandaged arm. _Drowner claw marks. It's gotta be him._

Geralt walked up to his suspect. "Nasty wound. Run into a drowner?"

The arsonist blearily glared at him. "What the fuck do you care?!" he snarled.

"Whoa! Our arsonist's a charmer, too. Come on. Smith wants to talk to you."

"I'll not talk to a nonhuman- sons o' bitches, all. And dwarves're the worst! Greedy little magpies- do anything for gold, they will!" He hiccuped, clearly still hungover. "Heh, they forge the blades the Black Ones put to our throats. Am I not right?"

Geralt rolled his eyes. _Lovely, a racist to boot._

The arsonist's tone became more cajoling. "Listen, we can work something out man to man. I give you gold, you don't turn me in. My mum died a while back and I sold her tools. I've spent some...but what's left is yours."

The witcher was unmoved by his offer. "Magpies and dwarves may be greedy," he said sardonically, "but I'm not. Can't buy me."

The man's expression turned ugly. "Then I'll beat your fuckin' mug to a pulp!"

 _A violent racist, the best kind._ Geralt raised a fist- the arsonist cowered at the mere motion- and cast Axii. "Calm down. Now follow me."

The hungover man immediately became befuddled and nodded dumbly at Geralt's command. He stumbled slowly behind his pied piper, who led him through the town and back to Willis' house. "I- ahem...I-I gotta...apologize. Gotta go...apologize," the arsonist mumbled single-mindedly.

Willis was working on the anvil when the witcher got his attention. The arsonist stumbled right up Geralt's side, unaware of anything until he was lightly slapped in the face by the witcher.

"Up and at 'em!"

"Hm? What...wha-what's goin' on?"

Geralt looked at Willis before sweeping his hand grandly like an announcer at court. "Here you go- one village pyromaniac in the flesh."

The dwarf seemed to recognize the man as his expression became a mix of betrayal and anger. "Napp? You?! I knew your mum for years, charged her nary a copper! This is how you repay me?! I've had enough. Oi, soldier," he shouted to a passing patrol, "A minute of your time, please!"

Geralt had a grim feeling about what was about to happen. The Nilfgaardians started walking over. "No! Willis- I beg you! I-I-I was drunk...di-didn't know what I was doin'!" Napp pleaded desperately. Willis only looked down in disappointment.

"I've told you, Master Willis. We will help you rebuilt once reinforcements come," one of the soldiers said, "The supplies have been ordered."

"Not what this is about, mate. This here's the arsonist! The witcher found him!"

The soldiers looked at Napp with narrowed eyes. "The forge was important to the garrison. Destroying it was sabotage. No trial needed here," the lead soldier said coldly, "Just a tree."

They grabbed Willis and dragged him away, who sagged in despair and didn't try to fight his fate.

Geralt watched them move off into the distance. "Harsh as punishment goes…"

"But deserved," Willis asserted, "You know, I hated the Black Ones at first, like everybody else did. Now, I'm thinkin' they might just bring order to this place- teach these layabouts some manners!"

He sighed. Most of the monsters people faced were born of their own hatred. "You realize you'll still have to live with these layabouts. They'll really love you now."

"I don't give a rat's arse about them, honestly. But enough about that. Your reward." He handed Geralt a pouch of coins. "And- I've managed to save some things from the fire. Anvil's still whole, as you can know, so I'm sure I can bang something out on it. You need anythin', let me know. Give you a good price."

Geralt shrugged and made to leave, not interested any further in debating race relations and forgiveness. "Thanks, farewell."

 **III**

Mislav's cabin was situated along a small winding path off the main road. It was an isolated location, standing as the only building around for at least a quarter of a mile. A rack with a stretched out wolf pelt sat in the front yard, but otherwise it was a run of the mill abode.

Geralt knocked on the front door. "Anyone home?" There was no answer. "Hello?" No noise came from inside. _Must be out hunting already._ Geralt pulled out a small pocket watch he had picked up from a contract the month before. _Pretty early, I thought I had enough time._

"Guess I'll just look for his tracks." It didn't take long: a fresh pair of footsteps leading out into the forest were easy to find and left a clear trail to follow. _Mislav just left home._

Following the tracks led Geralt into the nearby brush, where he found his target crouched in the bushes. He was a middle aged man, with a short ponytail and goatee. He was clad in greens and browns to fit in with the surrounding forest. He certainly fit the bill for a hunter, with a bow and quiver slung around his back and an axe at his waist. He didn't even move as Geralt approached, indicating a sound awareness of his environment.

"You Mislav?"

"Shh! You hear that?"

A series of howls echoed in the distance.

"Wolves? No- wild dogs."

Mislav stood to address Geralt. "Yes...more dangerous than wolves."

"Dogs more dangerous than wolves?" Geralt repeated skeptically, "Don't think so."

"It's the truth. Know why?"

Geralt sighed. "No, but I guess you're about to tell me."

"Wolves hunt to fill their bellies. Wild dogs kill for sport."

"Just like humans."

"Aye, they've learned much from us. Why not cruelty, too?" Mislav asked pensively.

"I'm hunting bigger game. The Nilfgaardians the griffin killed- where'd you find them?"

Mislav gave him a closer look at his proclamation. "Ah I see...You a witcher? That monster slayer they's talkin' about in the village?"

"Mhm."

Their conversation was interrupted by more barks. From the sounds, the dogs seemed more excited than before.

"I'll show you, sure. But, er, I gotta kill those mutts 'fore they hurt someone. Will you help? That is, if you don't mind bluntin' your silver blades on 'em."

 _You scratch my back..._ "Sure. Griffin's not going anywhere."

"No, dogs might, though. So step careful, now. Come on."

They started jogging in the direction of the howls, dodging around the thick underbrush. They spotted signs of the dogs' passing- torn branches, footprints, and the ever present howls.

"These dogs been a problem for a while now?"

"Since the war started."

"Not before?"

"Soldier on the march, he'll stop to rape a woman, strangle 'er, kill her man for a chuckle, even butcher a cow. But a dog? A kick in passin', no more."

 _Another forgotten casualty of war. The kind of thing people like that scholar will never realize._ Geralt caught sight of a few of the dogs in the distance, running ahead of them. _Probably tracking prey._

"These stray mutts form packs. They're gaunt, guts stuck to their spines, covered in scabies...but they just won't die."

"Cause they're clever. More so than foxes." The dogs howls had begun to turn into snarls. "And they hate man somethin' fierce."

They came to a clearing in the forest. "Too late. Attacked another one," Mislav reported. The pack was circling around a dead body, tearing into its guts. As Geralt and Mislav approached, the dogs picked up their scents and began to run toward them, looking to take down their next meal. The feral way the bloodthirsty beasts bared their teeth, spittle dripping from their mouths, made it clear these animals no longer held any love for mankind.

Geralt unsheathed his sword and began approaching the canines. Mislav nocked an arrow and pulled the drawstring back, firing into the gut of one of the dogs.

The pack, angry at the initial attack, began circling around the two hunters patiently. The wild dogs would try their luck a few at a time, making strafing runs at Geralt or Mislav to draw them into a position where they could be flanked. But the two humans held their ground. Geralt methodically sliced away at any who got too close to them, while Mislav put down any who stood out of the witcher's reach. In a matter of minutes, most of the pack lay dead at their feet, while a couple of stragglers ran off into the woods.

With the danger cleared off, Mislav and Geralt went to identify the corpse. It was a man, who had clearly bled out from dozens of bite marks riddling his body. Mislav took a closer look at the face. "Dieter…"

"You knew him?"

"We served at the lord's manor together, where the black army's encamped now. He was a stable hand, I was the lord's hunter."

"But that was before…" Mislav looked back down at the body, "Well, long time ago."

"Before what?"

"Before they drove me from the village," he replied bitterly.

Geralt recalled the Nilfgaardian commander's description of Mislav- 'A little strange'. A bit of strangeness never bothered Geralt though. "What did you do?" Geralt asked inquisitively.

"Nothin'. I'm a freak," he spat out. He made a visible effort to collect himself. "Sorry, I'd rather not talk about it."

"I'm a 'freak', too." Geralt sympathized. It was a slur he was all too used to hearing.

The hunter gave Geralt an ironic glance. "Aye, but of another kind."

A hunch came to Geralt. "If it's lycanthropy, I can help."

His face turned blank. "What?"

"Lycanthropy. Werewolves? Handled a few cases in the past," Geralt explained, "It's usually a simple curse that-"

"The lord's son, Florian, and I...We loved each other."

Geralt's train of thought came to a crashing halt. His witcher instincts had led him to consider all of the monsters or deformities he could have possibly been. Of all the possibilities, It had not crossed his mind that Mislav's sexuality could be what made him an outcast.

Mislav looked down, a sorrowful expression on his face. "Dieter walked in on us in the stables. They drove me away...Florian hanged himself. Lord started drinkin', and the estate fell into ruin. That's the long and short of it."

Geralt couldn't say he was surprised that people react poorly, but it still made him sad and weary to see such bigotry. "I'm sorry."

"Ah, ancient history now," he said, seemingly resigned. He seemed more than ready to move on from the painful topic. "I was to show you where I found the Nilfgaardians. Come on."

They started jogging westward, heading deeper into the Vulpine Woods.

"Griffin- know anything about it?"

"Oh, not much. Not my kinda game."

"You're _his_ kind though. Survival instincts alone oughta make you care."

"I walk silent through the woods. No griffin can hear me nor spy me."

"Hmm. Even so, he still might smell you."

Eventually, Mislav and Geralt arrived at the scene of the attack. The spot was a small campfire of sorts just off of one of the small trails winding through the forest, and any observer could tell it was a gruesome attack. Huge bloodstains still soaked the ground; trees were snapped apart and splinters were scattered all over the area.

"One lay there, by the stump, headless. The other hung from a branch, guts splayed, stretchin' down…" Mislav shivered. "Watch out for yourself now."

"I'll be fine. Not the first griffin I've dealt with. Not likely to be the last, either."

"Hope you're right...good hunting now." With that, Mislav departed.

Geralt walked into the camp, looking to gather as much information as possible. He started at the campfire. The positioning of the bloodstains around the firepit indicated they were sitting around the fire at the time of the attack. He dug around the debris looking for bits of evidence of their activities, and came up with a blood-stained bottle. He smelled it. _Cheap vodka. Nilfgaardians were celebrating. Griffin interrupted them._

Nothing else about the bloodstains or firepit told Geralt anything he didn't already know about the griffin itself. It was clear that the soldiers were caught off guard and ambushed by the griffin, who had torn down the trees and brutalized the bodies in the attack. _It was clearly angry at these men, enough to maul their bodies. Need to find out why._

Combing through the rest of the area yielded little information. The witcher put together what he knew- this was the first attack site, and by Geralt's estimation, probably the most brutal. The patrol was sent to take care of the griffin, and were celebrating some feat. Yet the griffin still lived, and it had abandoned its nest. _Only thing they would be celebrating is the destruction of the nest then._ _Need to find the soldiers' tracks, should lead me there._

With the goal in mind, he started searching for sets of footprints leading to the site. A lot of tracks crisscrossed the area but were much too recent and likely from the clean up crew. After some time, he thought he had found the right sets of prints.

"These prints are older. And deeper. Heavily armored...Nilfgaardians, probably."

Geralt retraced their steps, which led him down the path for a short time and across a broken bridge. Shortly afterwards, he found his way up a few cliff faces, until he reached the summit.

 _Jackpot._ He had located the griffin's nest, but was a gory mess. The smell of blood and rotten guts was palpable, and a swarm of flies buzzed about, picking at the corpses all around the nest. Piles of old bones littered the area- horses, dogs, and human. On the approach, Geralt found a body of a soldier, torn to pieces and left to rot. _Corpse is a couple of weeks old. Still alive when the griffin brought him here. Took a long time dying._

Rounding the corner, Geralt found a vital clue: another griffin's corpse. The beast was sprawled out, with one wing fully extended. It was just as large as the griffin he and Vesemir had fought at the ford: from this close of a look, the wingspan looked to be at least twenty-five feet wide.

"Female. Larvae in her wounds have already hatched. Been dead at least a week." _Other griffin must be a male._

He examined the wing feathers. "Thick shaft, dense bards- a royal griffin." _Means I won't have to worry about acid. Only archgriffins have that ability._

"Deep cuts over the whole body. Not a drop of blood on the beak or claws. Didn't defend herself. Crept up on her while she slept."

"Beak tip's worn, gray hairs in the coat- ten, twelve years old. Griffins pair up for life when young. Male must be about the same age."

The picture started to come together: the patrol attacked the nest while the female slept and the male was away, killing the female and destroying the nest. But they had failed to complete the job, so the male returned to the nest some time later. "Explains why the male I ran into was so aggressive. Hunted down the Nilfgaardians in the forest, then started prowling the area." _In some ways, they brought this on themselves._

Griffins, while hated by humans, had also become a symbol for loyalty, bravery, and tenacity. When engaged in battle, it would fight to the death to protect its mate. In this case, it likely would fight to similar lengths out of anger.

Geralt sighed. _This is going to be a tough kill._

 **III**

On his way back to town, Geralt stopped by Odalan's farmhouse to ask about the contract. He knocked on the front door and was answered by a middle-aged man, who peered at the witcher curiously.

"Greetings, good man. Having trouble with your well? That's what I read."

The farmer's eyes widened in realization, who opened the door and ushered Geralt inside. "Aye, 'tis haunted. Has been for a good twenty years."

That threw Geralt off. "Twenty? So why'd you put out a notice just now?"

"'Cause earlier on we drew our water from the river. But so many corpses floatin' in it after the battle, it's turned noxious." Odalan led Geralt into the other room where his wife was caring for a small, shivering child. "Me daughter Mandy drank half a pitcher, fell dreadful ill, can't keep nothin' down...she grows worse by the day."

"Herbalist claims you fight fever with drink, and not beer nor cider, but water- clear water. And where'm I to get it if not from the well. But first the ghost's gotta be driven away. And it don't let any man near."

 _Good advice from Tomira._ "This ghost- describe it for me."

He shuddered. "Well, it's awful frightening- awful."

Geralt shook his head. "I meant, what did it look like?" he probed.

The farmer's face took on a haunted look. "It looks...like a woman, but fresh from the grave. Wears a dirty dress, all rags, its skin flaking off its bones. And it howls...like it's sufferin'."

He ran the description through his head. "Hmm, some wraith...or maybe an alp."

"If you don't wallop it, master...if you don't take care of it, that is, it'll come kill me daughter."

The witcher's eyes landed on the small child for a moment. "Fine...I'll help. Where's this well?"

Odalan walked to one of the windows and pointed south. "In Hovel, a settlement on the heights. It's abandoned now, no one ventures there on account of the ghost being about. Drive it off, please!"

Geralt gave him a firm nod and exited the home.

 **III**

In Geralt's opinion, Hovel might have been a cozy little village at some point, but the name was now a rather appropriate one for the small, burnt out group of buildings he encountered. The village was surrounded by a small palisade that was losing the fight against local vegetation after decades of neglect. The buildings were arranged in a circle, and sitting in the middle was the infamous well.

The whole scene was missing something important though. _Strange, no sign of the ghost. Maybe it only shows at a certain time of day?_

Making note of that, he got right to work. The first abnormality Geralt noticed was the extremely blackened area surrounding the well. He bent down to examine the foliage there- all of it was scorched. A dog carcass was near the well, unnaturally dried up and sporting signs of burns. _All signs point toward a wraith of some sort. Most likely a noonwraith, if the farmer encountered it. No way he'd try fetching water at night._ His checked the sky- it seemed to be mid-morning by now. If his guess was correct, he would need to work quickly.

Geralt began to look around the burnt out village with a new intensity. "Something's binding the wraith to this place. An object- something she needs before she'll leave this world." Noonwraiths were born from the spirits of women who had died sudden and tragic deaths, often before their weddings. One never strayed far from a certain area because it clung to objects of emotional significance. Thus, a wraith could only be banished by the destruction of the object.

Needing clues about the village's past, he began to search through the rubble of the houses. The first two he searched had no correspondence or papers within its dark and dusty confines, but had not been cleared of its valuables even after all of this time. Geralt corrected that quickly and moved on.

It was in the third and final house where he dug up an old, faded journal. Geralt gently pried open the small book and peered at the pages. It belonged to a young woman who had lived in the village- the entries were dated a little over twenty years ago, around the same time the wraith first appeared. Geralt could begin to reconstruct the story of the village from the logs. The settlement was created by a group of peasants who had successfully petitioned for freedom from an abusive and cruel lord. They set up Hovel and were starting to build the beginnings of a life, when the lord came to visit a few weeks later. The diarist seemed very skeptical the lord had come with truly good intentions. The entries ended there.

Two pieces of information stood out to Geralt- the first was how the husband had gifted her a bracelet which she had seen as an expression of his love. _Might be what ties the woman's spirit to this place._

The second was an innocuous observation in the journal.- "They say he's calmed since his son's died, that he's not as quick to anger about small slights." He would have glossed over it normally, but it was so familiar to an earlier conversation. _This must be the same lord Mislav spoke about. The one who drove him away, caused his son to commit suicide...took to drinking. Takes a trip not long after to this village, which is populated by peasants who had humiliated him..._ Geralt put the journal down and narrowed his eyes.

He focused his senses and searched the house again. This time, he was looking for something more specific. Even though much time had passed, he still managed to pick it out quickly. He knelt down and swept away some dirt. "Blood stains, barely visible." He examined the shape of the stain in closer detail. "Someone was dragged this way. Someone who was still alive." The blood kept leading toward the door. "Palm prints in blood. Small hands- a woman's. Someone dragged her out. She was wounded, fought for her life."

"No body in sight, but still might find some tracks. Under the right conditions, blood stains can remain visible for decades." He looked at the well. _Another print on the supports._

Before approaching the well, he glanced at the shadows cast around him: there was still a little bit of time before a noonwraith would appear. He walked over to inspect the print. It was the same size as the one in the doorway, horizontal and nearly at Geralt's eye level. _She was being carried over._ The other prints were a little more faded because of weathering, but it led to a tied rope at the base of one of the wooden posts propping up the well.

"Blood stains, almost faded." He furrowed his brow. "But the line's taught. Something's not right." He leaned over the edge of the well. "A corpse. Hanged by the bucket rope. Woman the journal belonged to, must be."

Carefully, Geralt pulled the skeleton out of the well and laid it on the ground. He took a closer look at the bones. "Wide pelvis, small jaw- a woman. Around thirty, judging by the teeth. Left arm's missing." _Need to cremate the remains. Gotta find the object that binds her to the place before I do, though. Was she wearing the bracelet from her husband? Might be why her arm fell off._ Which meant...

"Gotta jump down there." He reluctantly took a peek down the well. The soft echoes of flowing water were reassuring to Geralt that this was not a stupid idea. Heaving a great sigh, he vaulted over the edge and took the plunge. _Hope I don't break my legs._

 **III**

Soaking wet, but satisfied, Geralt reentered Hovel. _Lucky not to come up empty-handed._ He had found the arm at the bottom of the well along with a bracelet that had an inscription- "To Claer, from Volker." It was a lovely bracelet, and Geralt regretted the need to burn it to exorcise the noonwraith.

He knelt in front of Claer's skeleton and added the left arm and bracelet. The sun was shining straight down on his head. He pulled out his silver sword and laid it in his lap. The witcher closed his eyes, taking deep breaths and slowly sinking into a heightened state of awareness. With every breath, he could hear more clearly the rustling of trees and the whipping of the wind. A wolf ran far in the distance, birds called out in the trees. The taste of ash was on the tip of his tongue. The cold silver sword was a sharp contrast to the warmth of his hand, and he could feel the grooves of the handle, the balance of the blade.

"Igni."

Geralt felt the heat of the fire slowly consume the bones. He stayed in his meditative pose, stretching his senses outwards, waiting. For a long moment, nothing changed- the wind, the fire, the silver in his hand. The sun slowly moved into its highest point in the sky...

Suddenly, Geralt opened his cat-like eyes. A bright green light burst forth from the well, and the noonwraith appeared. The Devil by the Well looked like a dessicated corpse, gaunt and weathered, a long, rotted tongue spewing out its unhinged jaw. Wrapped in linens and wearing a wreath of gnarled white flowers and tattered green ribbons, the noonwraith truly was the greatest perversion imaginable of a young maiden.

"Hey...I think it worked," Geralt mused. He stood, spinning his sword around in anticipation of the fight.

The wraith let out an inhuman shriek before dissolving into smoke. Geralt anticipated this and listened closely for it to reappear. _She's going try to blindside me._ He circled around, a sign on the tip of his fingers.

A small gust of displaced air came from behind him. _There!_ He threw down Yrden and whirled around, sword raised. His blade met the claw of the noonwraith, suddenly corporeal again. Geralt grunted, taking the full strength of the wraith's swipe on his sword. It shrieked in surprise, unexpecting its sudden solid state. Geralt quickly disengaged and sliced at the wraith's still outstretched hand, severing it.

The noonwraith glided backwards in anger and pain, floating out of the Yrden circle and disappearing from view again. It reappeared right in front of Geralt, clawing towards him at close range. Geralt made a quick roll, his enhanced reflexes saving him from great harm.

With a great cry, the wraith disappeared again. In a puff of blinding smoke, three apparitions appeared and started circling around Geralt. This was the part he hated- the tightening sensation in his head and chest as the wraith tried to drain his strength. Any combatant would lose consciousness in less than a minute under this assault.

The only advantage for Geralt was how vulnerable the specter's split sections were in this state: any kind of attack could dispel the illusions. Geralt immediately pirouetted toward the closest one, slicing through it like air. He rolled toward the next illusion and thrust his sword through its middle. He finished off the last one with a blast of Igni. With the illusions dispelled, the noonwraith reappeared a distance away and began to circle slowly. Geralt tried to close in, but the wraith blinked away, reappearing out of Geralt's reach again.

 _Need to stop it from phasing._ He looked around the battlefield and a tentative plan began to take hold.

He started backing away from the wraith toward one of the old houses. The wraith floated after Geralt, keeping the same distance between them. _Come on, just a little more._

About a dozen feet away from the house, Geralt quickly spun around and threw a grapeshot bomb at the door frame. The explosion blew bits and pieces of wood off, widening the frame. The witcher quickly backed through the entrance until he was standing in the house itself.

The noonwraith, thinking its foe had no way to escape, began to close in on the witcher. He watched the wraith float through the doorframe, and as it entered the threshold of the house, Geralt threw an Aard at its form. In its immaterial state, the monster was hardly impeded. Thinking it had Geralt off guard, the Devil by the Well lunged after him. Geralt smirked. _Got you._

What it didn't realize was that Geralt's Aard had obliterated the weakened doorframe, creating a large enough gap for him to dive under the specter's arms and escape the house. He took to his feet in an instant and unhooked a moon dust bomb from his belt. He chucked it at the off-kilter wraith's back before it could phase away. The bomb exploded in a shower of silver dust, covering the specter from head to toe.

Infuriated at the dust and its target's escape, the wraith howled and turned to charge at Geralt. Geralt raised his sword in a parrying stance and held his ground at its approach. "Come on!" he taunted. Rising to the challenge, the wraith reared up one of its claws to strike. All it could see was that the witcher had not cast the glowing trap: nothing would stop the attack. It committed all of its ghostly momentum into the swing, expecting to slash right through the mutant's sword and into his flesh. Geralt grit his teeth and thrust his sword up, bravely meeting the monster head on. It shrieked in victory, expecting to finish the fight.

That is why it was woefully unprepared when Geralt's silver sword stopped the specter's attack in its tracks. What it had failed to realize was that the silver dust had rendered it stuck in a corporeal state, and thus vulnerable. Taking advantage, Geralt dropped his parry and swung in an upwards arc, chopping an arm off. The wraith staggered back, injured and trapped. He attacked with a renewed fury, his blade dancing forward in sweeping arcs, quick horizontal slashes, and deep thrusts, tearing the wraith to shreds. None of its feeble dodges would allow it to escape the witcher's precise cuts.

The Devil by the Well gave one last terrified shriek just before Geralt lopped its head off. The wraith disintegrated in a flash of green light and smoke, falling at Geralt's feet.

Geralt took a couple of deep breaths to steady himself. The world slowly came back, his battle trance gradually receding. He looked down at the wraith's body. "She's gone...for good." _And may her spirit find peace._

As was the witcher's way, Geralt took the noonwraith's head as proof of his deed. The only thing left to do was to collect the reward.

He brought the head in a sack back to Odalan's house. It had only been a couple of hours since he had accepted the contract. The farmer was sitting in a chair in the bedroom when Geralt walked in, clasping his hands together as he watched his daughter. Geralt cleared his throat softly to get the man's attention.

"Job's done," he said. He held up the sack. "The well was haunted by the ghost of a woman who was killed there. I drove it away."

Odalan looked relieved and worried. "I just hope every unburied wretch don't start hauntin' us, or that battlefield will cause us a heap o' trouble."

"If they do, you know who to contact," Geralt replied. "Meanwhile...Claer, Volker...names ring a bell?"

"Hmm, I don't know 'em. Though I did hear our herbalist Tomira mention a Claer once...same one maybe?"

He pulled out a small pouch. "Your reward, master witcher. The gold I'd hid away for Mandy's dowry. Without you, she'd never 'ave lived to wed. Now...there's hope for it at the least."

 _The little girl's own dowry?_ Geralt shook his head. "At this point, doubt I'll ever marry," he joked, "You keep the coin for Mandy, her wedding. Raise a toast to my health then."

Odalan smiled gratefully. "Thank you, master witcher. Them's warm words, and you've a good heart. But I can't let you go empty handed." He walked over to the dresser and pulled out a small box with an amethyst inside. "Take this at least- for luck. "

Geralt accepted it silently, giving a small nod of farewell as he left the house.

 **III**

"Good man, whose field is that on the other side of the river?"

"By the wood? Boyan Klimmick's. Good lad, master witcher, though he-"

"Yes, yes. This Boyan, will he venture out to inspect his grain any time soon?"

"Why would he? Harvest is a long way off."

Vesemir thanked the man and bade him farewell. Geralt took the seat the villager vacated at the inn.

"How'd your search go?"

"Pretty well. There's a spot on the other side of the stream- there's fields and a grove. Plenty of room and far enough so no one'll get in our way. Did you find the nest?"

"Mhm. Learned some things. It's a male, had its nest in the hill of the Vulpine Woods. The Nilfgaardians burned the woods down, killed its mate, smashed their eggs- thought they had fixed things."

"Hm. It's always the same. Instead of sending for a professional, they try to do it themselves, only end up making matters worse."

"Lucky they have both of us."

"Indeed. It took you awhile to go about finding that nest. I got back hours ago, nearly started lunch without you."

Geralt snorted and pulled out a coin pouch. "Lucky for you, I made enough to pay for it."

 **III**

After the meal paid for by Geralt's multiple diversions, the two headed to the location Vesemir had picked out for the ambush.

Geralt looked around. "A stream, amber waves of grain...charming place," he remarked. "Perfect for an ambush."

"I know how to choose 'em."

"Wind's good, bait's scent will spread quickly," he said agreeably.

The witchers propped up a dummy sheep in the open field and emptied the vial of buckthorn around the area. Once finished, they headed into the small patch of birch trees on the edge of the field.

"Now all we have to do is wait."

They knelt in the underbrush, keeping an eye on their trap. Hours passed and there was no sign of the griffin. Geralt looked at his mentor, who was silently keeping his vigil.

"So, tell me...once we find Yennefer, what'll you do? Got your eye on a contract?"

He shook his head. "No, I'll go to Kaer Morhen."

"A little early to settle in for the winter," Geralt noted.

"Snows are a ways off, yes...and that's what worries me," Vesemir explained, "Nilfgaard's crossed the Pontar in the east. Puts them maybe a week's march from Kaer Morhen. If they reach the valley before snows can cover the passes...well, we need to cover our tracks, hide our paths." Kaer Morhen was nestled in the Blue Mountains in the far north of Kaedwen, and while it was relatively secluded, its location was no secret.

"Speaking of winter, and wintering- think you'll come this year?"

"Maybe," Geralt said. His thoughts wandered toward his recent dream, "Might bring a guest."

More time passed in anticipatory silence. Both warriors were long accustomed to long, solitary hunts for their prey. However, it was rare for witchers to work together, so they passed the time by sharing stories about their adventures, as witchers were wont to do when together.

"-and as soon as I call him out on his lie, he just bolts for his horse. Doesn't say a word!"

Vesemir chuckled. "You figure out what he wanted with the box?"

"I did. That's not even the most interesting part. Turns out our nervous-"

A piercing screech interrupted their conversation, followed by the flapping of wings. The griffin had finally taken the bait.

"Hear that? It's close." Geralt stood first. "Let's go give it a warm welcome," he growled.

"Wait. Take this." Vesemir dug into his pack and handed Geralt- "A crossbow?"

Vesemir shrugged innocently. "Won it in a card game while you ran around. Might come in handy."

Geralt smirked. "How about that. Always lectured us on the evils, but you're a gambler yourself."

"Stop talking. Got a griffin to kill."

They turned to spot their approaching target. The royal griffin circled the site a few times before it finally swung down and landed by the decoy. It cocked its head back and forth in confusion as it sniffed suspiciously. Having a second look at the male, Geralt guessed it was just as large as the female, a hulking twenty-foot specimen. It looked no worse for wear from the cut Geralt had inflicted on it the day before.

After a few more tentative sniffs, the griffin bit down on the dummy. Seeing the monster fully committed to the fake farm animal, Geralt and Vesemir charged out of the trees. The beast ignored their charge for a moment to chew on the doll. The witchers took advantage of the situation by tossing a salvo of grapeshot bombs that exploded on the griffin. Screeching angrily, the griffin threw the dummy aside and rose on its hind legs to meet the two witchers.

"Let's flank it!" Geralt yelled.

"On it!"

Geralt and Vesemir split up ten paces away from the creature, Geralt darting left and Vesemir cutting right. The griffin slammed back onto the ground at their approach in a plum of dirt. The two witchers forged through and began to circle at opposite sides. The beast darted back and forth between the two like a cat, its powerful wings curled in and ready to strike.

Vesemir cast Quen on himself before making the first approach, slicing fearlessly at the monster's side. The griffin raised its wing to protect itself, taking the sword strikes head on. Vesemir jumped out of the way just before the wing swung outward at great velocity. However, the wing managed to clip him and staggered him back. He grunted and recovered his balance. Fortunately for him, the attack was unable to break through his shield spell.

Geralt took the opening Vesemir had created, jumping in and inflicting a gash on its exposed flank. The griffin cried out and spun again, thrusting its other wing at Geralt before snapping its beak at him. He gracefully dodged out of the way of the griffin's blitzing attack, dropping a Yrden trap to facilitate his escape.

Geralt saw Vesemir cast a blast of Igni at the griffin's hind legs. Howling and realizing its disadvantageous position, the griffin took flight. The witchers kept their distance from each other, not wanting to present an inviting target. They watched it circle around a few times before the griffin screeched and pivoted in midair.

"It's about to dive!"

They rolled out of the way of its outstretched claws and watched it land on the far side of the field. The two monster hunters gathered themselves and sprinted toward it. Witchers knew that the most devastating attack from a griffin was easily its ability to close the distance and tackle its opponents. Not even a witcher or a soldier in full plate could withstand the battering force of a charging griffin. Geralt saw the griffin face him halfway across the field and gather itself for the very tactic. It was only a moment before it burst forward in a flash of outstretched claws and beak. A quick roll saved Geralt from being flattened instantly.

"Damn! It's fast!" cried Vesemir. He jumped in close to occupy the griffin, slicing away with precision and speed that belied his advanced years.

With a cast of Quen, Geralt came to his feet and joined the fray, creating more gashes in its dark mane. Vesemir blasted it with Aard, further staggering it.

Faltering under the onslaught of the witchers, the griffin lifted its head and let out a piercing roar. Geralt clutched his ears. It was much louder and higher pitched than its usual cries, and it could stun unmutated humans and burst their eardrums. While it only left Geralt with a piercing ringing in his head, he was forced to break his attack to shake it off.

Vesemir was closer to the source when it screamed, catching the full auditory assault head on. He stumbled back and blindly executed a backwards dodge. The desperate maneuver put him in a safe enough distance from the wind-up swing the griffin viciously threw at him, but not at the follow up, which connected and sent him sailing back. He landed on his back, rolling over twice with the momentum of the hit.

Seeing his friend in a tough position, Geralt grit his teeth and redoubled his attacks, leaving more wounds in its sides and legs. The griffin swiped at Geralt, but his Quen shield took the brunt of the hit, allowing him to continue his assault. The beast swept Geralt away before abandoning its position to fly off again. Geralt quickly got up and ran over to help Vesemir during the reprieve.

Geralt looked over his old friend. "You alright?"

He nodded. "Fine, but I'm way too old for this shit!"

Geralt cracked a small smile. "How old are we talking again?"

"Shut up! It's diving again!"

Geralt turned to see the griffin flying straight at him. At that moment, he remembered the weight of the crossbow on his back for the first time since the fight began. Pulling out the unfamiliar weapon, he aimed at his target.

The griffin bore down on him, stretching out its claws. Time slowed as Geralt aimed down the sights. Just as the griffin's flight path began to bottom out, the witcher fearlessly fired the crossbow. The bolt struck true, lodging itself into the griffin's wing joint. Vesemir hit it with another Aard right afterwards. The combination caused the griffin to cry out in shock as it tumbled over their heads and slammed heavily into the ground. Satisfied with the small crossbow, Geralt reholstered it and charged at the prone creature alongside Vesemir.

Rolling away, the griffin desperately forced itself into the air again just before Geralt and Vesemir could reach it. But instead of circling, this time it turned and fled. It beat its enormous wings to quickly gain speed, flying off towards the windmill far in the distance.

"After it! We can't let it get away!" Vesemir warned. There was no telling what destruction a wounded and angry griffin could wreak if left to recover. Geralt and Vesemir sprinted after it, parting fields and hopping fences. It had left a trail of blood spatters from its numerous wounds, indicative of its weakening state. They ran all the way to the base of the hill where the mill stood. At the base, the griffin was prowling about, cawing in pain and bestial anger. A large stretch of torn up grass hinted at a hard landing- Geralt's bolt had stilted its ability to flee any further. At their approach, the griffin spun around and narrowed its eyes at the witchers.

Geralt and Vesemir broke apart and repeated their earlier tactics- Geralt charged head on while Vesemir circled around the monster's back. The beast, sensing it was cornered, fought even harder than before. It spun around constantly to claw at whichever witcher was attacking it at the moment, making it near impossible for them to do damage. It was a constant dance- one witcher would jump forward then quickly jump back as the other jumped in. After some time, the griffin began to slow down from its numerous wounds. Its swings began to get sloppier and the two witchers began to sneak in a few hits.

Finally, Vesemir sliced it across the neck and the griffin fell to the ground. With a grunt, Geralt jumped onto its back, spinning his sword around and plunging it into the monster's head. With a final roar, the griffin stilled and fell dead.

Geralt jumped off the beast and landed by Vesemir. They looked down at their prey in silence, each catching their breath and taking in their success.

"Not bad...not bad," Vesemir breathed out, "Though you could stand to improve some things."

"Man spends his whole life learning," Geralt said with a hint of irony.

"Not a witcher. Unless he doesn't want to live long. But more on that later. You take the head to the Nilfgaardians, I'll head back to ready our horses. Meet me back at the inn."

As it was, killing the griffin was just another day in their lives. Geralt nodded in agreement and walked up to the corpse.

 **III**

Bathed in the twilight of the fading sun, Geralt strode into camp. With the griffin's massive head in his hand and blood-stained armor, Geralt cast an impressive figure as he walked through the base of the Nilfgaardian camp. _I could really use a bath though. Buckthorn, blood, guts, and sweat- not a great combination._

A few of the soldiers looked at him curiously, some with fear, others with distrust. A surprise handful here and there nodded respectfully in recognition of the potential danger he saved them from. He ignored all of their reactions and made his way up to the manor, intent on learning more about Yennefer's whereabouts.

He walked in the main camp to the sight of the captain inspecting the delivered grain from the village. The village ealdorman from the day before stood nearby, hunched over nervously. The Nilfgaardian cut open each of the bags and pulled out a handful of grain. After the third, he took a whiff of it and promptly threw it on the ground in disgust.

"What the hell is this?" he spat at the ealdorman.

"R-rye," the peasant said meekly.

"You take me for a blind man or a fool? This grain is rotten," the captain bit out harshly.

He shook his head vigorously. "I-...I didn't know!"

"So, a fool. Dammit, you never learn…" He straightened up. "Military codex, article two, section three: 'For the delivery of defective goods- fifteen lashes with a knout.' Make it so!" he barked at the nearby soldiers.

The ealdorman crumpled to his knees. "No, no, no! By the gods, no!" he wailed. The soldiers dragged him off to another part of the ruined manor.

Geralt stood there, biting his tongue through the whole scene. Men in power who professed kindness and understanding but then turned around and hid behind rules when pressed were a kind of hypocrite which he was all too familiar with.

The captain rounded on him. "What?!"

Geralt's stony visage turned colder than usual. "Guess you've dropped your good uncle act," he criticized.

"It was no act," he argued. "I extended a hand to these people. They spat on it."

"Could it be 'cause it held the sword that killed their loved ones?"

"Hah! A moralist!" he scoffed. "And what would you do in my stead?"

"Wouldn't ever _be_ in your stead," Geralt returned matter-of-factly.

The captain physically stopped himself from retorting and took a moment to rein in his frustration. "Tell me why you have come."

Geralt tossed the griffin's head on the ground. "Fulfilled my end of the bargain." He stepped closer. "Your turn. Where'd Yennefer go?"

It was to the captain's credit that he responded immediately. "To Vizima."

"She was a day's ride from here the whole time, under my nose? Might've said so," Geralt said incredulously.

"Yes, I might have," the captain freely admitted, "But you would not have killed the griffin. Tit for tat."

 _You and your goddamn idioms._ With the information he needed, Geralt turned and starting walking away.

"Halt!"

Geralt stopped and narrowed his eyes before facing the Nilfgaardian again.

"We are not done," he said. The captain pulled out a large coin purse. "It's yours, this gold. I would not want you to say you were inadequately compensated."

Geralt stared at the captain for a moment. The witcher squashed a childish impulse to reject the gold in protest- it would change nothing except his own financial situation. Without a word, he took the proffered gold and left the camp. The cries of the unfortunate ealdorman and the uncaring stares of the soldiers were the only things accompanying his silent footsteps.

 **III**

Back at the White Orchard Inn, Geralt found Vesemir at a table sipping a drink from his traveling tankard. He was observing the clientele around them carefully. Geralt strode over intently and took a seat. Vesemir did not even look up at his arrival.

"Yennefer's in Vizima," Geralt announced, "Got a few friends there, so…" He stopped when he saw Vesemir sneer at whatever he was staring at. "Something wrong?"

"Look around. Trouble brewing," Vesemir said quietly.

Geralt followed Vesemir's gaze over to the table across from them. A bunch of shady, unkempt ruffians were glaring at just about anything and anybody around the bar. One of them was testing his idiocy by stabbing a knife between his fingers as quickly as possible. All of them were armed and raring for trouble.

"Who are they?"

"Patriots. Drinking their seventh round to Temeria, fists starting to itch."

Geralt looked around. "Don't see any Nilfgaardians."

"They'll find another foe," Vesemir said ominously.

Geralt nodded understandingly. Two witchers would fit the bill nicely. "Here, take this." He pulled out a pouch and handed it to Vesemir. "Half of the reward for the griffin."

Vesemir accepted it and stood up. "I'll buy some provisions for the journey. Then we'll go."

Geralt turned a watchful eye toward the belligerent patriots.

"Geralt." The white haired witcher looked up at his mentor. "We should stay out of it...just this once."

Geralt hated standing by and doing nothing when evil was unfolding. Being so close to finding Yennefer, Geralt knew he could not risk everything by putting themselves in a compromising position with the locals. Still, the mood in the inn was palpably tense: the other patrons were withdrawn, sulky, and the drink was flowing much more than the night before. It was enough to cause a tingling in his sword hand, a warning to Geralt of potential danger. He saw Vesemir walk up to the counter and put down his tankard, looking to get the innkeeper Elsa's attention.

A local woman sat by the counter, nursing a drink. Based on her slumped posture and bleary eyes, Geralt guessed she was more than a few drinks deep. She took a gulp of her drink before calling out. "What happened to the Lillies?"

Elsa looked over momentarily. "Took 'em down," she said.

The "Lillies" was the colloquial nickname for the Temerian crest. Geralt assumed they had once hung proudly in the inn but logically had been taken down to avoid antagonizing the occupiers.

"Took 'em down? To hang a golden sun there now?" the woman spat bitterly.

Elsa walked over and took Vesemir's tankard. "I cannot show Temerian colors," she explained, "They'll come and burn the tavern down."

Unwilling to accept the answer, the drunk local clenched her fist and slammed it onto the table. "Maybe it's true what they say? You fond of the Imperials? You Nilfgaard's whore?" she accused wildly.

The innkeeper looked at her with a hurt expression. She busied herself with filling Vesemir's tankard, handing it to him before answering. "I'll let that slide. I know grief eats at your heart," she said patiently.

Geralt saw Vesemir walk back toward him, which partially obscured the two women. It was still clear what happened next; the drunk slammed her fists and stood up. She pushed towards Elsa's face and screamed, "You know shit! They hanged my sister- dragged her out o' the cloister like a dog. Said Nilfgaard's no place for superstition. That they don't fear the wrath of the gods. And you, do you fear it!?"

The entire inn was watching the argument now. Geralt's feeling in his hand was getting much worse.

"If not for Annie your child woulda choked on its navel-string," she continued shouting. Elsa turned to walk away, but the drunk pulled her hair and dragged her back into her face.

"Let go!" Elsa yelled. Geralt quickly stood from his seat and began to make his way over.

"You owe your son to my sister attending the birth! And you don't fear the god's wrath?! You don't fear it, you cunt?!"

Elsa desperately reached for the meat cleaver on the table. The drunk snarled and slammed her head against the table then grabbed her ears and started mercilessly smashing her face into the table edge. Elsa began crying out in pain.

Vesemir, no longer able to stand and watch, disobeyed his own advice and threw the drunk to the ground.

"Leave me be!" she screamed.

One of the ruffians beat Geralt to the counter and shoved Vesemir. Vesemir was hardly moved, and put himself between Elsa and the ruffian. He calmly pulled out his wolf medallion. "Recognize this medallion? You know what it means? Back off."

The drunk woman got up and pushed past the men, fully intent on ignoring the consequences of her vicious attack. Geralt narrowed his eyes at her. When she neared him, he cast a surreptitious Axii at her. " _Don't_ _move._ " She blinked blankly, standing right where Geralt had cast his sign.

Geralt strode over to Vesemir's side, looking over the counter at Elsa. She was bleeding from a few cuts on her face and what appeared to be a broken nose. "You alright?" he asked. She gave the barest of nods, staring at the blood on her hands in shock.

The patriot glared hatefully at the witchers. "They say witchers steal young'uns!" he accused wildly. "That true?!" The rest of the drunken patriots gathered behind the accuser. "What'd the emperor promise you freaks? Your own land? Like he did the elves once?" cried another one.

Vesemir glared back. "Get out, all of you," he barked.

"We ain't goin' nowhere," growled the one who shoved Vesemir. One by one, they started to draw their weapons; clubs, maces, swords. "And neither are _you_."

 _Well, shit. This went south fast._ Geralt drew his steel sword carefully, Vesemir following suit.

"They won't back down now," Vesemir stated unnecessarily.

"I can see that."

Geralt couldn't tell which of the patriots attacked first, but the entire group soon descended upon the two. It was an extremely unfair fight even though the witchers were outnumbered: Geralt and Vesemir had the advantage in strength, speed, experience, skill, and sobriety. In a matter of moments Geralt had disarmed the last belligerent and sliced his head off. It rolled over to the feet of Elsa, who frantically backed away from the detached head.

Geralt sheathed his sword and walked over to the panicking woman, not even noticing the blood on his armor. He extended a hand to her. "It's alright. It's over."

"Leave me be. Get away!" To his horror, she only backed away further with genuine terror in her eyes.

"See his face? Gods save us!?" cried one of the other patrons. He started puking.

"Begone. And don't ever come back," Elsa cried frightfully.

Geralt was stunned at the hostile rejection to his help. He blankly fumbled for his coin pouch as a form of apology. He stopped when a firm hand landed on his shoulder. Geralt turned to see Vesemir's grim face.

"So much for not getting involved," he said sadly. He gave Geralt an understanding look and squeezed his shoulder. "Come on, let's go."

 **III**

Leaving the mess behind, Geralt and Vesemir stepped out of the tavern- and straight into a waiting group of Nilfgaardian soldiers. Geralt looked down at his blood spattered armor. _Aw crap, this just keeps getting better._ "That brawl- we didn't start it," he insisted.

"Excuses, excuses...you've not changed a bit," a rich, velvety voice drawled.

Her essence had reached Geralt before her words did- a clean, undeniably feminine scent that carried the barest hint of the road; but most of all, her lilac and gooseberry perfume. His cat-like eyes widened in recognition.

Inhaling her scent and hearing her voice awoke a familiar piece of him which spoke of joy and hardship, promises and regrets: A piece of him so familiar that reigniting it was like fully regaining one's senses without knowing they were dulled in the first place.

There was only one person who had ever affected him so.

Yennefer parted the soldiers with her measured, confident grace. She stood before Geralt with a slightly raised eyebrow and hands resting on her hips. Geralt saw every little detail as if it was the first time. Every part of her was just as he remembered- lush raven hair framing her beautiful face, her gleaming violet eyes, the slightly elongated nose, and the narrow lips. Even her lace trimmed white-collared shirt, diamond pendant, long black coat, black trousers, and high-heels were inextricably Yennefer. She radiated beauty, strength, and elegance in equal measure. The world stood still for a moment; time stretched out for eternity as Geralt marveled at the sight of her.

"Ye-Yen? How?" he whispered.

She walked up to him, eyes never leaving his. "I received a report. About a witcher who appeared in White Orchard. I knew it was you. Looking for me. I might have waited until you found me...but you know me. Patience has never been my strong suit."

She allowed a small smile to grace her face. "It's...good to see you, Geralt," she said, "I...I'd even embrace you...were you not covered in blood."

The witcher's grimaced at the reminder. "Sorry...wasn't expecting to see you. To be honest, this isn't at all how I'd imagined we'd meet," he admitted.

"How did you imagine it?" she coyly asked.

"He didn't imagine you'd have a Nilfgaardian escort with you," Vesemir cut in, "Don't get me wrong, Yennefer. We're glad to see you...but I think you owe us an explanation."

"And I shall provide it...in Vizima. Ready your horses," she commanded to Geralt.

He blinked, finally regaining his footing. "We can talk here. Some charming orchards nearby. In bloom, even, so you almost can't smell the corpses," he lithely suggested.

"A tempting proposition. Sadly, I must say no," she said with a laugh in her eyes, "You see, someone awaits you in Vizima. Someone who doesn't like to be kept waiting."

Geralt had a strong feeling about who that someone could be.

Yennefer did not disappoint. "Emperor Emhyr Var Emreis...or, to those on more intimate terms with him, the White Flame Dancing on the Graves of His Foes," she announced.

"Can't wait to see what this is about. Far as I know, last time we saw each other, he wanted to kill me," he noted dryly.

"Well, now he wishes to make you an offer."

"The kind one can't refuse?" Vesemir half asked, half insinuated.

"I didn't. Though I could have," the enchantress said simply.

"Must've been a damn good offer then," Geralt couldn't help pointing out, "Not many things you'd give up your freedom for. And even fewer people."

Her brief stare revealed nothing to him. "The sooner we set off, the sooner you'll find out," she said enigmatically, before turning around to ready her mount.

Geralt, unbothered, turned to Vesemir. "What about you?"

"I'm going in the opposite direction. Somehow I doubt the emperor's invitation mentioned me. Besides, I've got things to do at Kaer Morhen, remember?"

"Yeah, I remember. Thanks for your help, Vesemir. See you soon." They embraced, no more words needing to be said.

Geralt walked up to Yennefer. "How's your horse? Swift?" she questioned.

"Can't complain," he said with a shrug, "Why do you ask?"

"I'd like to be back behind some thick city walls. As soon as possible," she replied seriously and mounted her horse.

Geralt tilted his head at her words: they seemed particularly ominous from someone as capable as Yennefer. _Seems to fit what we knew about her tracks. Hmm, sounds like something is afoot._ He looked toward Vesemir and gave a parting wave, who nodded in return. His business concluded in White Orchard, he and Roach fell in with Yennefer and their Nilfgaardian escort. Together, they started on the path to Vizima- and the emperor.

 **III**

 **A/N:** Here she is! "The Woman", to borrow parlance from Sherlock, has made her way into our tale. Completionists will notice that I've decided to leave out a mission in the prologue part of the game. This is intentional- not every side quest will have a logical place in the narrative, and an open world game is inherently dissonant to a plot which has a sense of urgency to it. That said, Geralt does have an insatiable sense of curiosity, and half of the fun is to see how everything he does has a purpose or effect in the world.

In recent Witcher news, the Hearts of Stone teaser trailer just dropped - go check it out if you haven't already! A character we have already met in our story is featured...

I want to also say that I really appreciate the response this story has received so far. Your support brighten my day and helps me keep at it even with the craziness of real life coming full force with internships, job searches, classes, and every other thing that comes about in the daily life of a college student. Unfortunately, updates will come less frequently than they have because everything else has started to demand my time, but I shall push on!

Next up Geralt ends up in Vizima and confronts his greatest fear- picking out clothes. Many thanks to carolcat for her wonderful support and work as editor for this chapter. As always, thank you for reading, and I'll see you soon!

-HyperS


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